newyorker--2020-05-23--A Young Fashion Photographer’s Intimate FaceTime Portraits

In the book “ Couples and Loneliness , ” from 1999 , Nan Goldin reflects on the years she spent taking pictures of her friends , a band of queer couples , drag queens , and misfit artists who inhabited downtown Manhattan in the nineteen-seventies and eighties .
By the time of her writing , many of her subjects had died of AIDS .
“ I used to think that I could never lose anyone if I photographed them enough , ” she wrote .
“ In fact , my pictures show me how much I ’ ve lost.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ photographs of our loved ones in order to hold them close—and it hasn ’ t gone away during these months when we can not physically be together .
Take the recent work of Heather Glazzard , a twenty-five-year-old artist based in London , who has been taking remote portraits of their friends using FaceTime .
Glazzard , who uses the pronouns “ they ” and “ them , ” is from Yorkshire , in the north of England , but , when the pandemic arrived in the U.K. , they decided to stay @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
They had a kind of family in the city to look after : a community of young L.G.B.T.Q .
people , many of whom Glazzard had met while shooting a series from 2018 , “ Queer Letters , ” in which they captured their subjects alongside notes to their younger selves .
Before the coronavirus pandemic , Glazzard had been shooting regularly for the British magazine i-D and had done their first editorial for Vogue Italia .
“ At the start of the year , I felt like my career was just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In March , as their gigs evaporated , they had the idea to start a personal project , shooting their friends remotely— “ an adaptation to the times.
” The first portrait they made was of a friend named Alice , who showed up for her digital session wearing a frilly pink cotton dress .
Glazzard asked Alice to take them on a virtual tour of her mother ’ s Glasgow apartment , before settling on shooting in the bedroom .
“ If I was there , it would be the same @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” they said .
The resulting image is starkly composed—with Alice perched on her bed , staring directly at the lens from behind angular brown bangs—but it also has a sense of humor about its formal constraints .
Glazzard left their desktop background visible at the edges of the frame ; in the upper right-hand corner , per FaceTime ’ s formatting , a small box shows a reflection of Glazzard , their hair close-cropped and bright orange , with Nora beside them .

In the book “Couples and Loneliness,” from 1999, Nan Goldin reflects on the years she spent taking pictures of her friends, a band of queer couples, drag queens, and misfit artists who inhabited downtown Manhattan in the nineteen-seventies and eighties. By the time of her writing, many of her subjects had died of AIDS. “I used to think that I could never lose anyone if I photographed them enough,” she wrote. “In fact, my pictures show me how much I’ve lost.” It’s a powerful compulsion—to take photographs of our loved ones in order to hold them close—and it hasn’t gone away during these months when we cannot physically be together. Take the recent work of Jesse Glazzard, a twenty-five-year-old artist based in London, who has been taking remote portraits of their friends using FaceTime. Glazzard, who uses the pronouns “they” and “them,” is from Yorkshire, in the north of England, but, when the pandemic arrived in the U.K., they decided to stay in London with their girlfriend, Nora. They had a kind of family in the city to look after: a community of young L.G.B.T.Q. people, many of whom Glazzard had met while shooting a series from 2018, “Queer Letters,” in which they captured their subjects alongside notes to their younger selves.
“Loyin.”
Before the coronavirus pandemic, Glazzard had been shooting regularly for the British magazine i-D and had done their first editorial for Vogue Italia. “At the start of the year, I felt like my career was just taking off,” they told me. In March, as their gigs evaporated, they had the idea to start a personal project, shooting their friends remotely—“an adaptation to the times.” The first portrait they made was of a friend named Alice, who showed up for her digital session wearing a frilly pink cotton dress. Glazzard asked Alice to take them on a virtual tour of her mother’s Glasgow apartment, before settling on shooting in the bedroom. “If I was there, it would be the same, scoping out the light and backgrounds,” they said. The resulting image is starkly composed—with Alice perched on her bed, staring directly at the lens from behind angular brown bangs—but it also has a sense of humor about its formal constraints. Glazzard left their desktop background visible at the edges of the frame; in the upper right-hand corner, per FaceTime’s formatting, a small box shows a reflection of Glazzard, their hair close-cropped and bright orange, with Nora beside them.


newyorker--2020-05-23--My Stupid Quarantine Body

My Stupid Quarantine Body

I spent the entire month of April being sober , pretty much by accident .
Some of this can be chalked up to how I ’ m a very social drinker who , like the rest of the world , has been abruptly deprived of the “ social ” part , but it ’ s also a function of a strange new watchfulness that is a feature of my quarantine personality .
What if the shit hits the fan ?
, my mind whispered .
Can you really flee with a hangover ?
Drinking no longer felt like a beloved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the good of my health but an imprudent liability in the face of a looming societal breakdown .
My relationship with food has also shifted a lot over the past several weeks .
In the first days of quarantine , I baked compulsively , along with seemingly every other adult with an Instagram account .
Putting sugar , fat , and carbs together in a pleasing way was something that I could do , a chemical reaction that I could control .
But , after a while , baking no longer felt soothing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to food banks , and I gave some to my neighbors .
That felt good , but not even I , a certified pie obsessive , could bake my way out of being depressed .
I started selling drawings on Instagram to benefit the food banks instead .
I also stopped eating lunch .
The same tense whisper that warned me off whiskey also instructed me to further curtail my food intake .
I took to having a spoonful of peanut butter and a small orange at around three in the afternoon , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dinner .
Feeling constantly hungry felt like an appropriate physical response to this weird , slow emergency .
Seeking satiety , comfort , and numbness felt somehow morally wrong .
I won ’ t dress it up as an act of solidarity with the many , many people who don ’ t have enough food right now , but I will say that on some level staying hungry felt like practice for if/when we join their ranks .
Was there a vanity angle to all this ?
Of course there was .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ easily and lose it only by the most harsh and stringent of methods .
Despite my new regimen , my clothes seem to fit about as well as they always have , which is to say , not very .
I haven ’ t stepped on a scale , because I find that I don ’ t want to quantify anything about the pandemic .
Keeping close track of these times feels like I ’ m making these times real , instead of a weird floating pause that will be over , eventually @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the batteries in our scale are dead .
I started making a point of doing some kind of exercise thing every day—a bike ride , a YouTube workout , even fucking yoga .
But did I think that somehow , at forty-two , I ’ d be able to hone my body into a weapon ?
I grossly underestimated the circumstances necessary to pull a Sarah Connor .
Maybe if I were quarantined in a facility for the criminally insane with nothing to do but pullups and nothing to eat but my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sick abs by now .
But , alas , I ’ m just in Brooklyn .
Gravity seems to have grown stronger during the pandemic , pulling at my face and every other saggable thing on my body .
My mouth is so used to being compressed into a tight angry line that I ’ m afraid it might be stuck this way .
I have more and weirder gray hairs .
The awareness of my body is only heightened when I go out into the world .
On trips to the grocery @ @ @ @ @ @ @ m acutely conscious of how much space I take up , and how clumsily I move through that space .
Wearing a mask , I can ’ t even deploy my well-worn apologetic grin .
I wear a mask because we should all really be wearing a mask , but , on a semiotic level , I don ’ t know if it reads as “ responsible citizen trying to protect you from my mouth rain ” or “ scared , entitled , white woman.
” I don ’ t know how to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this world at all .
How do you keep up an emergency mind-set for weeks on end ?
I feel myself shifting into a headspace that regards quarantine as the new normal , with an array of implications .
For one , I need to get my emotional shit together : my ups and downs , my not-always-suppressed tantrums .
I don ’ t know how much of a pass I can continue to give myself as far as my feelings go .
My before-self , before the pandemic , valued her sense @ @ @ @ @ @ @ vibe that saw me through difficult spots , when I could access it .
The tense , watchful person that replaced her is so quick to anger , so quick to cry , so agitated , and so sad .
She ’ s not doing me any favors , she ’ s not getting any good work done , she ’ s a pill of a mother and wife , and she ’ s not even making me thinner .
Last weekend , we visited with friends , taking all the new-normal precautions @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we were on the sidewalk , everybody wore masks .
The wife offered me a drink , and I said yes .
The warm expansive feeling that spread through my body as the vodka hit my bloodstream felt lovely , I won ’ t lie .
( The morning-after heavy sads that are a feature of my middle-age drinking experience felt less great . )
The next day , ravenous at noon , I went ahead and ate .
It ’ s hardly a return to my old self , but it served @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nothing more than a form of superstition .
If we ’ re in this for the long haul—and it seems pretty clear that we are—maybe keeping myself in good health and spirits is a better use of my time than a half-assed hunger strike against a virus .
So , for now , I ’ ll eat lunch , I ’ ll have a drink on occasion , and I will share what I have as much as I can .
And I will absolutely , under no circumstances , do a pullup @

I spent the entire month of April being sober, pretty much by accident. Some of this can be chalked up to how I’m a very social drinker who, like the rest of the world, has been abruptly deprived of the “social” part, but it’s also a function of a strange new watchfulness that is a feature of my quarantine personality. What if the shit hits the fan?, my mind whispered. Can you really flee with a hangover? Drinking no longer felt like a beloved activity that I was setting aside for the good of my health but an imprudent liability in the face of a looming societal breakdown.
My relationship with food has also shifted a lot over the past several weeks. In the first days of quarantine, I baked compulsively, along with seemingly every other adult with an Instagram account. Putting sugar, fat, and carbs together in a pleasing way was something that I could do, a chemical reaction that I could control. But, after a while, baking no longer felt soothing. I made cookies and donated them to food banks, and I gave some to my neighbors. That felt good, but not even I, a certified pie obsessive, could bake my way out of being depressed. I started selling drawings on Instagram to benefit the food banks instead.
I also stopped eating lunch. The same tense whisper that warned me off whiskey also instructed me to further curtail my food intake. I took to having a spoonful of peanut butter and a small orange at around three in the afternoon, and then eating a “sensible” dinner. Feeling constantly hungry felt like an appropriate physical response to this weird, slow emergency. Seeking satiety, comfort, and numbness felt somehow morally wrong. I won’t dress it up as an act of solidarity with the many, many people who don’t have enough food right now, but I will say that on some level staying hungry felt like practice for if/when we join their ranks.
Was there a vanity angle to all this? Of course there was. In normal times, I put on weight easily and lose it only by the most harsh and stringent of methods. Despite my new regimen, my clothes seem to fit about as well as they always have, which is to say, not very. I haven’t stepped on a scale, because I find that I don’t want to quantify anything about the pandemic. Keeping close track of these times feels like I’m making these times real, instead of a weird floating pause that will be over, eventually, won’t it? Also, the batteries in our scale are dead. I started making a point of doing some kind of exercise thing every day—a bike ride, a YouTube workout, even fucking yoga. But did I think that somehow, at forty-two, I’d be able to hone my body into a weapon? I grossly underestimated the circumstances necessary to pull a Sarah Connor. Maybe if I were quarantined in a facility for the criminally insane with nothing to do but pullups and nothing to eat but my own rage, I’d have sick abs by now. But, alas, I’m just in Brooklyn.
Gravity seems to have grown stronger during the pandemic, pulling at my face and every other saggable thing on my body. My mouth is so used to being compressed into a tight angry line that I’m afraid it might be stuck this way. I have more and weirder gray hairs. The awareness of my body is only heightened when I go out into the world. On trips to the grocery store or bike rides, I’m acutely conscious of how much space I take up, and how clumsily I move through that space. Wearing a mask, I can’t even deploy my well-worn apologetic grin. I wear a mask because we should all really be wearing a mask, but, on a semiotic level, I don’t know if it reads as “responsible citizen trying to protect you from my mouth rain” or “scared, entitled, white woman.” I don’t know how to make a case for my presence in this world at all.
How do you keep up an emergency mind-set for weeks on end? I feel myself shifting into a headspace that regards quarantine as the new normal, with an array of implications. For one, I need to get my emotional shit together: my ups and downs, my not-always-suppressed tantrums. I don’t know how much of a pass I can continue to give myself as far as my feelings go. My before-self, before the pandemic, valued her sense of cheerful nihilism—a kind of hedonistic fuck-it vibe that saw me through difficult spots, when I could access it. The tense, watchful person that replaced her is so quick to anger, so quick to cry, so agitated, and so sad. She’s not doing me any favors, she’s not getting any good work done, she’s a pill of a mother and wife, and she’s not even making me thinner.
Last weekend, we visited with friends, taking all the new-normal precautions: they sat on their stoop, we were on the sidewalk, everybody wore masks. The wife offered me a drink, and I said yes. The warm expansive feeling that spread through my body as the vodka hit my bloodstream felt lovely, I won’t lie. (The morning-after heavy sads that are a feature of my middle-age drinking experience felt less great.) The next day, ravenous at noon, I went ahead and ate. It’s hardly a return to my old self, but it served to illustrate that abstemious behavior is sometimes nothing more than a form of superstition. If we’re in this for the long haul—and it seems pretty clear that we are—maybe keeping myself in good health and spirits is a better use of my time than a half-assed hunger strike against a virus. So, for now, I’ll eat lunch, I’ll have a drink on occasion, and I will share what I have as much as I can. And I will absolutely, under no circumstances, do a pullup.


newyorker--2020-05-23--What to Stream: Twelve Classic Movies to Watch with Your Kids

When my children—now in their twenties—were little , streaming wasn ’ t yet a thing .
Home-movie viewing then was a collective activity involving videotapes and eventually DVDs , and my wife and I had a policy for it that we called “ one of yours , one of mine.
” Starting in the mid-nineties , when our older daughter was in preschool , we figured that she should watch what she wanted ( often Disney movies that her friends were watching , too ) as well as the kinds of things that we , my wife and I , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reason for this was simple : we wanted our children to experience movies outside of the monoculture of mainstream popularity , and it mattered greatly , I think , that we were doing it together , as a family .
It worked—back then , we had a good time together , and now our daughters , as adults , enjoy a wide range of movies .
Every family is different , and every child is different .
Parents will have varying ideas about what ’ s appropriate for their children—whether profanity , violence @ @ @ @ @ @ @ differ regarding what sights or subjects frighten or trouble them .
My wife and I took a relatively permissive view of such matters , hedged by the fact that we favored classic movies : until the late nineteen-sixties , the Hays Code prevailed in the United States , placing narrow limits on the kinds of behavior that movies could show .
Yet in classic Hollywood , demeaning stereotypes abounded .
When watching films from that era with our daughters we made a point of explaining and criticizing what we saw onscreen ; we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and viewings often stretched to two evenings .
Below are a handful of our family ’ s favorites .
I ’ m not including the new releases my daughters enjoyed when we went to the theatres— “ Down with Love , ” “ School of Rock , ” “ Napoleon Dynamite , ” “ Norbit ” —though I ’ d recommend those as well , with the caveat that they , too , warrant careful explanations .
As Fredric March says in one of our favorites , “ The Best Years of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a rather unusual relationship in our family .
It may seem corny and mid-Victorian , but we tell each other things.
” “ Modern Times ” : Comedy starts with Charlie Chaplin , and so did we .
Silence was no object—we all watched in rapt delight the famous set pieces of the feeding machine and the trip through the gears .
We talked with our daughters about strikes and their breakers , about the desperate poverty of the Depression years—and were treated , in turn , to at-home performances of the nonsense @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chaplin ’ s entry into the realm of talking pictures .
Our next Chaplin viewing was the last movie in which he starred , “ A King in New York , ” which is even more politically confrontational , dealing , as it does , with McCarthy-era persecution critically , albeit outrageously comedically , and linking it to American money-madness and related indignities ( including a primal version of reality TV ) .
( Streaming options . )
“ Monkey Business ” : Modern comedy starts not with Chaplin but with Howard Hawks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Cary Grant as a chemist whose concoction , an elixir of youth , gets slipped into his laboratory ’ s water supply and propels him and his wife ( Ginger Rogers ) to riotous regressions .
Hawks is a director of both antic ingenuity and philosophical power .
His idea of rejuvenation is no mere return to frivolity ; rather , his protagonists shed the inhibitions and repressions of adulthood and give free rein to lust and rage—albeit in the mild forms that were possible in Hollywood at the time .
Marilyn Monroe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and our family watched her again in another Hawks film , “ Gentlemen Prefer Blondes , ” the effervescently libidinous musical in which she co-stars with Jane Russell .
( Streaming options . )
“ Some Like It Hot ” : Speaking of Monroe , Billy Wilder ’ s Prohibition-era gangster comedy , in which she stars as a member of the all-women ’ s jazz band that Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis join , in drag , as male musicians fleeing Mafia hit men , was a multilayered delight : along @ @ @ @ @ @ @ switch , and the background stories of the Roaring Twenties , there was Tony Curtis ’ s impersonation of Cary Grant , whom my daughters knew from “ Monkey Business.
” ( Streaming options . )
“ Singin ’ in the Rain ” : I ’ m told it ’ s now a staple of family home viewing , but I ’ ll recommend it anyway for those who haven ’ t yet given it a try .
Its pleasures include the combined antics of Gene Kelly , Debbie Reynolds , and Donald @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and catchy songs and heroic dancing , and even the fascinating ( if revisionist ) view of the transition from silent movies to talking pictures .
But all were eclipsed by Jean Hagen ’ s raucous performance as the arrogant yet hapless silent star Lina Lamont , whose ego-mad aggression—and helium-balloon voice—our daughters imitated with glee .
( Streaming options . )
“ Goodbye Charlie ” : Speaking of Debbie Reynolds , gender-switching , and funny voices , Vincente Minnelli ’ s brassy yet deeply empathetic 1964 comedy has it all .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ philanderer who is killed by his lover ’ s husband , a Hungarian producer ( Walter Matthau ) and comes back as a woman—in the form of Debbie Reynolds .
She tries to persuade the dead man ’ s best friend ( Tony Curtis ) that she is him ; then , she learns what it ’ s like to be a woman in the Hollywood wolf pack when the unctuous producer tries to put the move on her , and does so with an outrageous accent that engendered plenty of mimicry here @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) “ The Pajama Game ” : The story , of the romance between a pajama-factory union organizer ( Doris Day ) and the new manager ( John Raitt ) , who ’ s her bargaining-table opponent , is unusual ; the songs , by Richard Adler and Jerry Ross , are uniformly memorable ( we all sing some of them to this day , including “ Seven and a Half Cents ” ) ; the musical stagings range from piquant ( Raitt ’ s duet with his own voice on Dictaphone ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ duet in Hollywood history , “ There Once Was a Man ” ) to comedically haunting ( the most famous number of all , “ Hernando ’ s Hideaway ” ) .
It also features one of the most idiosyncratic and original musical performances ever , by the short-lived Carol Haney .
( Streaming options . )
“ The Gang ’ s All Here ” : Busby Berkeley ’ s bravura reached unmatched heights in this giddy wartime Technicolor extravaganza , which is famous for its giant bananas but is even more thrillingly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its very first scene , which goes from complete darkness to a closeup of Carmen Miranda to a ship at a New York pier to the inside of the night club where the number is ostensibly being staged .
It concludes with a special-effects routine that appears to dissolve the actors ’ personalities into sociobiological abstractions .
What ’ s more , Benny Goodman and his band are in it , and Berkeley films their performances swoopingly .
To this day , my daughters remember and sing his song “ Paducah ” : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can rhyme it with ‘ bazooka.
’ ” ( Streaming options . )
“ Playtime ” : Jacques Tati ’ s colossal comedy of infinitesimal misadventures was filmed in a skyscraper city that he actually constructed on the outskirts of Paris .
He plays his familiar character Monsieur Hulot , an everyman of traditional habits and tastes who ’ s caught in the physical and psychological labyrinths of technological modernity .
It ’ s a choreographic delight and a delicately frustrated romance that also features the frantic comedy of retail absurdities .
One @ @ @ @ @ @ @ little song hummed through the nose of a derisive passerby observing a grandiose construction project , unfailingly delighted our daughters .
( Streaming options . )

When my children—now in their twenties—were little, streaming wasn’t yet a thing. Home-movie viewing then was a collective activity involving videotapes and eventually DVDs, and my wife and I had a policy for it that we called “one of yours, one of mine.” Starting in the mid-nineties, when our older daughter was in preschool, we figured that she should watch what she wanted (often Disney movies that her friends were watching, too) as well as the kinds of things that we, my wife and I, considered our kind of fun. The reason for this was simple: we wanted our children to experience movies outside of the monoculture of mainstream popularity, and it mattered greatly, I think, that we were doing it together, as a family. It worked—back then, we had a good time together, and now our daughters, as adults, enjoy a wide range of movies.
Every family is different, and every child is different. Parents will have varying ideas about what’s appropriate for their children—whether profanity, violence, sexuality, or stereotypes—and children will differ regarding what sights or subjects frighten or trouble them. My wife and I took a relatively permissive view of such matters, hedged by the fact that we favored classic movies: until the late nineteen-sixties, the Hays Code prevailed in the United States, placing narrow limits on the kinds of behavior that movies could show. Yet in classic Hollywood, demeaning stereotypes abounded. When watching films from that era with our daughters we made a point of explaining and criticizing what we saw onscreen; we made frequent use of the Pause button, and viewings often stretched to two evenings.
Below are a handful of our family’s favorites. I’m not including the new releases my daughters enjoyed when we went to the theatres—“Down with Love,” “School of Rock,” “Napoleon Dynamite,” “Norbit”—though I’d recommend those as well, with the caveat that they, too, warrant careful explanations. As Fredric March says in one of our favorites, “The Best Years of Our Lives,” “We have a rather unusual relationship in our family. It may seem corny and mid-Victorian, but we tell each other things.”
“Modern Times”: Comedy starts with Charlie Chaplin, and so did we. Silence was no object—we all watched in rapt delight the famous set pieces of the feeding machine and the trip through the gears. We talked with our daughters about strikes and their breakers, about the desperate poverty of the Depression years—and were treated, in turn, to at-home performances of the nonsense song that concludes the movie and heralds Chaplin’s entry into the realm of talking pictures. Our next Chaplin viewing was the last movie in which he starred, “A King in New York,” which is even more politically confrontational, dealing, as it does, with McCarthy-era persecution critically, albeit outrageously comedically, and linking it to American money-madness and related indignities (including a primal version of reality TV). (Streaming options.)
“Monkey Business”: Modern comedy starts not with Chaplin but with Howard Hawks, and this 1952 film, starring Cary Grant as a chemist whose concoction, an elixir of youth, gets slipped into his laboratory’s water supply and propels him and his wife (Ginger Rogers) to riotous regressions. Hawks is a director of both antic ingenuity and philosophical power. His idea of rejuvenation is no mere return to frivolity; rather, his protagonists shed the inhibitions and repressions of adulthood and give free rein to lust and rage—albeit in the mild forms that were possible in Hollywood at the time. Marilyn Monroe has a small role in the film, and our family watched her again in another Hawks film, “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” the effervescently libidinous musical in which she co-stars with Jane Russell. (Streaming options.)
“Some Like It Hot”: Speaking of Monroe, Billy Wilder’s Prohibition-era gangster comedy, in which she stars as a member of the all-women’s jazz band that Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis join, in drag, as male musicians fleeing Mafia hit men, was a multilayered delight: along with the enticing complexities of the gender-role switch, and the background stories of the Roaring Twenties, there was Tony Curtis’s impersonation of Cary Grant, whom my daughters knew from “Monkey Business.” (Streaming options.)
“Singin’ in the Rain”: I’m told it’s now a staple of family home viewing, but I’ll recommend it anyway for those who haven’t yet given it a try. Its pleasures include the combined antics of Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connor, the deft comedy and catchy songs and heroic dancing, and even the fascinating (if revisionist) view of the transition from silent movies to talking pictures. But all were eclipsed by Jean Hagen’s raucous performance as the arrogant yet hapless silent star Lina Lamont, whose ego-mad aggression—and helium-balloon voice—our daughters imitated with glee. (Streaming options.)
“Goodbye Charlie”: Speaking of Debbie Reynolds, gender-switching, and funny voices, Vincente Minnelli’s brassy yet deeply empathetic 1964 comedy has it all. It’s the tale of a Hollywood philanderer who is killed by his lover’s husband, a Hungarian producer (Walter Matthau) and comes back as a woman—in the form of Debbie Reynolds. She tries to persuade the dead man’s best friend (Tony Curtis) that she is him; then, she learns what it’s like to be a woman in the Hollywood wolf pack when the unctuous producer tries to put the move on her, and does so with an outrageous accent that engendered plenty of mimicry here at home. (Streaming options.)
“The Pajama Game”: The story, of the romance between a pajama-factory union organizer (Doris Day) and the new manager (John Raitt), who’s her bargaining-table opponent, is unusual; the songs, by Richard Adler and Jerry Ross, are uniformly memorable (we all sing some of them to this day, including “Seven and a Half Cents”); the musical stagings range from piquant (Raitt’s duet with his own voice on Dictaphone) and explosive (the most athletic love duet in Hollywood history, “There Once Was a Man”) to comedically haunting (the most famous number of all, “Hernando’s Hideaway”). It also features one of the most idiosyncratic and original musical performances ever, by the short-lived Carol Haney. (Streaming options.)
Carmen Miranda in Busby Berkeley’s “The Gang’s All Here,” from 1943. Photograph from 20th Century Fox / Everett
“The Gang’s All Here”: Busby Berkeley’s bravura reached unmatched heights in this giddy wartime Technicolor extravaganza, which is famous for its giant bananas but is even more thrillingly original in other musical sequences, including its very first scene, which goes from complete darkness to a closeup of Carmen Miranda to a ship at a New York pier to the inside of the night club where the number is ostensibly being staged. It concludes with a special-effects routine that appears to dissolve the actors’ personalities into sociobiological abstractions. What’s more, Benny Goodman and his band are in it, and Berkeley films their performances swoopingly. To this day, my daughters remember and sing his song “Paducah”: “If you want to, you can rhyme it with ‘bazooka.’ ” (Streaming options.)
“Playtime”: Jacques Tati’s colossal comedy of infinitesimal misadventures was filmed in a skyscraper city that he actually constructed on the outskirts of Paris. He plays his familiar character Monsieur Hulot, an everyman of traditional habits and tastes who’s caught in the physical and psychological labyrinths of technological modernity. It’s a choreographic delight and a delicately frustrated romance that also features the frantic comedy of retail absurdities. One particular sequence in particular, involving a little song hummed through the nose of a derisive passerby observing a grandiose construction project, unfailingly delighted our daughters. (Streaming options.)
“Dragonwyck”: An ingenious form of the Gothic, set in upstate New York in the eighteen-forties, starring Gene Tierney as a farmer’s daughter who is lured to the grand estate of her distant cousin (Vincent Price) and gets caught up in a dual plot of murder and political chicanery (in which President Martin Van Buren figures prominently). It’s the erudite Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s first feature, and it resembles a blend of Tocqueville and Poe. Our children had a precocious taste for the macabre, sparked first by over-my-shoulder glances, on the TV, of films by Fritz Lang (such as “While the City Sleeps”) and Alfred Hitchcock, and they were drawn in by the tale of innocence threatened and family curses revealed. (Streaming options.)


newyorker--2020-05-23--A Brief History of the Codpiece, the P.P.E. for the Renaissance Crotch

Early in the eighteenth century , visitors to the Tower of London could gaze upon a painted wooden statue of Henry VIII , the English king who ’ d died some two hundred years before .
Royally robed , sceptre in hand , the likeness befitted Henry ’ s reputation for extravagance , right down to its lascivious secret mechanism : “ If you press a spot on the floor with your feet , ” one observer wrote , “ you will see something surprising with regard to this figure , but I will not say more.
” I will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ codpiece , sallying forth in full regalia .
Henry VIII remains the poster boy for codpieces , those profane protuberances that drew eyes crotchward in the sixteenth century .
A suit of the king ’ s armor , boasting a bulbous codpiece weighing more than two and a half pounds , is still on display at the Tower ; women used to stick pins in its sumptuous red-velvet lining to ward off barrenness .
And who could blame them ?
Sure , Henry sired notoriously few healthy children , but , in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he exudes the lusty mystery of a wellborn stud , his codpiece swollen with the stuff of life .
He and his appendage feature prominently in “ Thrust : A Spasmodic Pictorial History of the Codpiece in Art , ” by the English critic Michael Glover .
“ Has heaven ever before conjured so broad a pair of shoulders ?
” Glover writes , of Henry ’ s portrait .
“ Do you know of any other monarch who is as wide as he is long ?
” Good questions , both @ @ @ @ @ @ @ begins with simpler ones : Why did it exist at all , and why did men elect to wear it ?
Theories abound .
The historian Grace Vicary has argued that codpieces were , in a sense , the P.P.E .
of their day , born as a means of containing a disease—in this case syphilis , which was then sweeping through Europe .
Treating the French pox , as it was known , called for “ a whole galaxy of herbs , minerals , syrups , and decoctions , ” Vicary writes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of messy unguents and poultices.
” If you wanted to protect your fancy wardrobe from stains , the reasoning goes , you would do well to isolate the whole package in an oversized box .
Plus , Renaissance men carried a lot of junk on their belts—this was the era that gave us the “ swashbuckler , ” after all—and a bit of padding around the crotch would help insulate them “ from bumps and friction.
” With time , codpieces transcended their functional origins , much as the surgical mask has yielded @ @ @ @ @ @ @ For the men of the fifteenth century , conditions for phallic peacocking were optimal : theirs was an age without pants , when only snug stockings and long gowns hid their “ privy Members and Buttockes.
” By 1450 , doublets had become immodestly short .
The codpiece , in its early form , was a baggy cloth gusset laced to the stockings , but , in the course of the next century , rising on a tide of ostentation , it bulged and distended .
In Italy and Spain , and soon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into vogue .
A kind of circumferential arms race led to boxy , generously portioned tubes that simpered from the waistlines of princes and peons alike .
Thus the codpiece , designed for discretion , became instead a rigid contrivance .
Historians have compared it to “ a permanent erection , ” noting that it was “ so voluminous it could serve as a pocket.
” And indeed it did , offering convenient storage for one ’ s hankie or a stray orange , in addition to “ ballads , bottles , napkins @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a looking glass , ” as the scholar Will Fisher has written .
With great size comes great decorative responsibility , and men of means rose to the occasion .
They brocaded , damasked , bejewelled , embroidered , tasseled , tinseled , and otherwise ornamented their codpieces until they became like walking Christmas trees .
Puberty was no prerequisite : boys as young as seven could engorge themselves with silk and satin .
On the battlefield , a codpiece signalled martial swagger ; in the royal court , procreative swagger ; and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
And yet none of this presses on the question of motive .
Glover looks for clues in the litany of codpieces jutting from Renaissance paintings , leading a perceptive tour of the nether regions .
If nothing else , he ’ s an inspired describer of groins in their finery .
Of Alonso Sánchez Coello ’ s “ Portrait of Alessandro Farnese , ” he notices that the young noble ’ s codpiece mimics “ the puffing out of his breeches , which sag from his elegant pinched-in waist like two gently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Emperor Charles V with a Dog , ” Glover probes the hound ’ s “ questing muzzle , ” which veers “ sniffing-close ” to its master ’ s codpiece in what can only be “ an allusion to the emperor ’ s virility.
” And in Luca Signorelli ’ s unruly fresco “ The End of the World , ” Glover sees , amid the “ writhing , gesticulating soldiers , ” “ overripe fruit hanging from the bough of the groin , poised and displayed for quick picking.
” Too @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that overripe fruit , as when he writes , “ It seems you just can ’ t keep a good codpiece down.
” When he exclaims that “ only a mere letter ” separates the French word for codpiece , braguette , from baguette— “ that faux cod-phallus , crispy and hard on the surface yet so yielding at its center ” —he seems guilty of the same “ self-puffery ” he mocks .
“ It was as normal to wear a codpiece , ” he writes , “ as it is to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in our own day .
And yet , and yet , we still wonder about it.
” True , but throughout “ Thrust , ” Glover treats the codpiece more as an object of ridicule than of curiosity .
The epitome of embellished manhood , it contributed , he writes , “ to a fabricated , fictionalized version of the male body.
” Be that as it may , a generation of men lived and died in these things—owned them , stored them , sat pridefully for portraits in them .
Even if @ @ @ @ @ @ @ machismo , isn ’ t there more to learn about it from the art history at the heart of his study ?
Fisher has proposed that the codpiece embodies duelling visions of masculinity .
Before the Renaissance , a man ’ s identity was predicated on his ability to have children , ideally lots of them .
The codpiece had one stockinged foot in that world— “ cod ” was slang for the scrotum , not the penis—and the other in a racy alternative that valued “ sexual conquest ” more than reproduction @ @ @ @ @ @ @ men were essentially performing their performance anxiety ; Marjorie Garber has called the codpiece “ the thinking man ’ s ( or woman ’ s ) bauble , the ultimate detachable part.
” Whatever the case , by the close of the sixteenth century , the codpiece had become a canker-blossom on the male form , and it declined as suddenly as it had ascended .
As early as the fifteen-eighties , Michel de Montaigne had written off the accessory as “ empty and useless , ” puzzling , “ What was the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ breeches worn by our fathers ?
” Fashion took a decidedly feminine direction ; soon ruffs adorned necks and upperstocks plumped from midriffs .
Some mourned the senescence of tumescence .
Barton Holyday longed for the days of “ that Cod-piece-ago , when the innocency of men did not blush to shew all that Nature gaue them.
” ( He seems to have elided the fact that codpieces were mostly empty space . )
Since their peak , they ’ ve popped up only in passing .
In the nineteen-sixties , Eldridge Cleaver @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Party , used the profits from his prison memoir to design a pair of pants with a large , “ sock-like codpiece ” built in .
“ We ’ ve been castrated in clothing , ” Cleaver told the press , “ and my pants open up new vistas .
I ’ m against penis binding.
” He ’ s not alone : in the past year , codpieces have appeared on the runway from Thom Browne and Gucci , the latter available in leather .
If a revival is coming—if our thirst @ @ @ @ @ @ @ slaked with masks , gloves , and shields alone—we would do well to learn from our forebears .
To my eye , the finest painting featured in “ Thrust ” is Brueghel the Elder ’ s “ The Wedding Dance , ” from 1566 , in which a jumble of tipsy peasants make merry at a homespun reception .
Foregrounded , of course , are what Glover aptly calls “ no-holds-barred codpieces , ” worn by commoners “ thoroughly unashamed of themselves .
.
.
exulting in the sheer beastliness of men.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has never looked more natural .
Even if Brueghel intended to warn against bawdiness , he captured the fashion as a way of life rather than as a flagrant absurdity .
These men are being , not seeming .
Did any of them ever glimpse his crotch and worry , even for a fraction of a second , that he looked ridiculous ?
Did he fear that history would judge him harshly ?
As he ran the last lace through its eyelet , did he think anything at all ?
These and other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tucked away in the proud codpiece of the past .

Early in the eighteenth century, visitors to the Tower of London could gaze upon a painted wooden statue of Henry VIII, the English king who’d died some two hundred years before. Royally robed, sceptre in hand, the likeness befitted Henry’s reputation for extravagance, right down to its lascivious secret mechanism: “If you press a spot on the floor with your feet,” one observer wrote, “you will see something surprising with regard to this figure, but I will not say more.” I will: it was the king’s codpiece, sallying forth in full regalia.
Henry VIII remains the poster boy for codpieces, those profane protuberances which drew eyes crotchward in the sixteenth century. A suit of the king’s armor, boasting a bulbous codpiece weighing more than two and a half pounds, is still on display at the Tower; women used to stick pins in its sumptuous red-velvet lining to ward off barrenness. And who could blame them? Sure, Henry sired notoriously few healthy children, but, in a famous portrait by Hans Holbein the Younger, he exudes the lusty mystery of a wellborn stud, his codpiece swollen with the stuff of life. He and his appendage feature prominently in “Thrust: A Spasmodic Pictorial History of the Codpiece in Art,” by the English critic Michael Glover. “Has heaven ever before conjured so broad a pair of shoulders?” Glover writes, of Henry’s portrait. “Do you know of any other monarch who is as wide as he is long?”
Good questions, both, but any study of the codpiece begins with simpler ones: Why did it exist at all, and why did men elect to wear it? Theories abound. The historian Grace Vicary has argued that codpieces were, in a sense, the P.P.E. of their day, born as a means of containing a disease—in this case syphilis, which was then sweeping through Europe. Treating the French pox, as it was known, called for “a whole galaxy of herbs, minerals, syrups, and decoctions,” Vicary writes, applied directly in “a variety of messy unguents and poultices.” If you wanted to protect your fancy wardrobe from stains, the reasoning goes, you would do well to isolate the whole package in an oversized box. Plus, Renaissance men carried a lot of junk on their belts—this was the era that gave us the “swashbuckler,” after all—and a bit of padding around the crotch would help insulate them “from bumps and friction.”
With time, codpieces transcended their functional origins, much as the surgical mask has yielded to the cloth Baby Yoda one. For the men of the fifteenth century, conditions for phallic peacocking were optimal: theirs was an age without pants, when only snug stockings and long gowns hid their “privy Members and Buttockes.” By 1450, doublets had become immodestly short. The codpiece, in its early form, was a baggy cloth gusset laced to the stockings, but, in the course of the next century, rising on a tide of ostentation, it bulged and distended. In Italy and Spain, and soon across Europe, padding and stays came into vogue. A kind of circumferential arms race led to boxy, generously portioned tubes that simpered from the waistlines of princes and peons alike.
Thus the codpiece, designed for discretion, became instead a rigid contrivance. Historians have compared it to “a permanent erection,” noting that it was “so voluminous it could serve as a pocket.” And indeed it did, offering convenient storage for one’s hankie or a stray orange, in addition to “ballads, bottles, napkins, pistols, hair, and even a looking glass,” as the scholar Will Fisher has written. With great size comes great decorative responsibility, and men of means rose to the occasion. They brocaded, damasked, bejewelled, embroidered, tasseled, tinseled, and otherwise ornamented their codpieces until they became like walking Christmas trees. Puberty was no prerequisite: boys as young as seven could engorge themselves with silk and satin. On the battlefield, a codpiece signalled martial swagger; in the royal court, procreative swagger; and, everywhere else, swagger at large.
And yet none of this presses on the question of motive. Glover looks for clues in the litany of codpieces jutting from Renaissance paintings, leading a perceptive tour of the nether regions. If nothing else, he’s an inspired describer of groins in their finery. Of Alonso Sánchez Coello’s “Portrait of Alessandro Farnese,” he notices that the young noble’s codpiece mimics “the puffing out of his breeches, which sag from his elegant pinched-in waist like two gently slumping puddings.” Surveying Titian’s “Emperor Charles V with a Dog,” Glover probes the hound’s “questing muzzle,” which veers “sniffing-close” to its master’s codpiece in what can only be “an allusion to the emperor’s virility.” And in Luca Signorelli’s unruly fresco “The End of the World,” Glover sees, amid the “writhing, gesticulating soldiers,” “overripe fruit hanging from the bough of the groin, poised and displayed for quick picking.”
“Emperor Charles V with a Dog,” by Titian (1533). “Portrait of Alessandro Farnese,” by Alonso Sánchez Coello (1531).
Too often, though, Glover reaches for that overripe fruit, as when he writes, “It seems you just can’t keep a good codpiece down.” When he exclaims that “only a mere letter” separates the French word for codpiece, braguette, from baguette—“that faux cod-phallus, crispy and hard on the surface yet so yielding at its center”—he seems guilty of the same “self-puffery” he mocks. “It was as normal to wear a codpiece,” he writes, “as it is to wear, say, a padded bra in our own day. And yet, and yet, we still wonder about it.” True, but throughout “Thrust,” Glover treats the codpiece more as an object of ridicule than of curiosity. The epitome of embellished manhood, it contributed, he writes, “to a fabricated, fictionalized version of the male body.” Be that as it may, a generation of men lived and died in these things—owned them, stored them, sat pridefully for portraits in them. Even if the phenomenon was solely a crisis of machismo, isn’t there more to learn about it from the art history at the heart of his study?
Fisher has proposed that the codpiece embodies duelling visions of masculinity. Before the Renaissance, a man’s identity was predicated on his ability to have children, ideally lots of them. The codpiece had one stockinged foot in that world—“cod” was slang for the scrotum, not the penis—and the other in a racy alternative that valued “sexual conquest” more than reproduction. Seen in this light, codpiece-wearing men were essentially performing their performance anxiety; Marjorie Garber has called the codpiece “the thinking man’s (or woman’s) bauble, the ultimate detachable part.”
Whatever the case, by the close of the sixteenth century, the codpiece had become a canker-blossom on the male form, and it declined as suddenly as it had ascended. As early as the fifteen-eighties, Michel de Montaigne had written off the accessory as “empty and useless,” puzzling, “What was the meaning of that ridiculous part of the breeches worn by our fathers?” Fashion took a decidedly feminine direction; soon ruffs adorned necks and upperstocks plumped from midriffs. Some mourned the senescence of tumescence. Barton Holyday longed for the days of “that Cod-piece-ago, when the innocency of men did not blush to shew all that Nature gaue them.” (He seems to have elided the fact that codpieces were mostly empty space.) Since their peak, they’ve popped up only in passing. In the nineteen-sixties, Eldridge Cleaver, a leader of the Black Panther Party, used the profits from his prison memoir to design a pair of pants with a large, “sock-like codpiece” built in. “We’ve been castrated in clothing,” Cleaver told the press, “and my pants open up new vistas. I’m against penis binding.” He’s not alone: in the past year, codpieces have appeared on the runway from Thom Browne and Gucci, the latter available in leather.
“The Wedding Dance,” by Brueghel the Elder (1566).
If a revival is coming—if our thirst for personal protective equipment cannot be slaked with masks, gloves, and shields alone—we would do well to learn from our forebears. To my eye, the finest painting featured in “Thrust” is Brueghel the Elder’s “The Wedding Dance,” from 1566, in which a jumble of tipsy peasants make merry at a homespun reception. Foregrounded, of course, are what Glover aptly calls “no-holds-barred codpieces,” worn by commoners “thoroughly unashamed of themselves . . . exulting in the sheer beastliness of men.” He’s right: the codpiece has never looked more natural. Even if Brueghel intended to warn against bawdiness, he captured the fashion as a way of life rather than as a flagrant absurdity. These men are being, not seeming. Did any of them ever glimpse his crotch and worry, even for a fraction of a second, that he looked ridiculous? Did he fear that history would judge him harshly? As he ran the last lace through its eyelet, did he think anything at all? These and other facts are forever hidden from us, tucked away in the proud codpiece of the past.


newyorker--2020-05-23--Charli XCX’s Quarantine Album Doesn’t Pander to the Moment

If creativity flourishes under constraint , then , theoretically , the restrictions of quarantine should be ideal for making art .
In practice , this hasn ’ t proved quite true .
For the last two and a half months , live-streamed music events have been spotty and chaotic ; standup-comedy sets on Instagram Live have been awkward and plagued by technical difficulties .
Everyone , from the laymen to the celebrity class , has been rendered amateur .
People have begun trying to re-create classic paintings using their pets , and Banksy transformed his bathroom into an art project @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had been overrun by rats .
There have been flashes of frenetic D.I.Y .
genius , but , in general , boredom and desperation have not been the wellspring of innovation they were once hoped to be .
And , for many , it ’ s virtually impossible to soldier on with artistic pursuits—movie and television productions have been frozen , and many musicians have postponed projects out of financial necessity .
Without the prospect of tour dates to bolster revenue , releasing an album is largely unfeasible .
And so the British @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an unusual—and refreshing—case of art under quarantine .
A nimble observer of pop trends for the last decade or so , she has not only embraced the physical and emotional conditions of lockdown but , in a mere thirty-nine days , has produced one of the more professional and enlivening artifacts to emerge in the COVID-19 era .
When quarantine went into full effect , in March , Charli announced on a Zoom call with her fans that she would immediately begin recording her fourth album .
The result , “ How I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our cooped-up state into a dance-party soundtrack that will still appeal when dance parties become legal again .
Which is not to say that Charli has fallen into the trap of taking quarantine too literally .
“ How I ’ m Feeling Now ” is not a pure concept album .
It ’ s a record that reveals the discomforts of quasi-captivity in brief glimpses rather than by beating listeners over the head .
One of the more maddening aspects of quarantine has been how quickly it reduces our extraordinary circumstances to stale @ @ @ @ @ @ @ same form of claustrophobic doldrums , a malaise that can ’ t easily be transmuted into insight .
There is only one song on Charli ’ s album , “ Anthems , ” that taps into these experiences with an intense directness .
She opens the song with a survey of her brain .
“ I ’ m so bored , woo !
” she bellows over a strobe-like beat that mimics delirium .
“ Wake up late , eat some cereal , try my best to be physical , ” she says @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
/ Some days , I ’ m so frightened.
” Later , she talks about aimlessly shopping online and feeling exhausted by doing nothing .
But the song , like so much of the album , eventually becomes about the desire to unleash her coiled energy .
“ I want anthems , late nights , New York , ” she yells .
It ’ s one of her best tracks to date .
Charli entered the pop scene in 2012 , when the boundaries between Top Forty and indie were beginning to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ work in a state of fluidity , singing , at one moment , the hook for summer bangers ( she did guest vocals on Iggy Azalea ’ s irresistible “ Fancy ” and Icona Pop ’ s ecstatic “ I Love It ” ) and collaborating , in the next , with outsiders and provocateurs , often manipulating her deep , raspy voice with digital filters .
Even as she ’ s slipped into the mainstream , she ’ s kept a faintly ironic attitude , making synth pop with strange , glitchy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , everything she does sounds like Charli .
She ’ s the unusual trend-surfer with a trademark sound , a robust and panoramic pop filled with a longing for nighttime adventure .
One might assume that , when stuck at home , people would be more inclined to listen to music .
But data suggest that , in March , music streaming dipped by about eight per cent , while TV numbers soared .
A smattering of artists have been agile—or opportunistic—enough to seize the moment .
Drake , ever the savvy marketer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ April , by releasing a song geared toward the viral dance factory of TikTok .
“ Toosie Slide ” is a breezy song that instructs viewers how to do a rudimentary sequence of steps : “ Right foot up , left foot slide , ” Drake sings .
( The video for the song is shot entirely in his Toronto mansion . )
A few weeks later , Drake released “ Dark Lane Demo Tapes , ” a collection of song scraps that didn ’ t quite cohere as an album but that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of his stir-crazy fans .
Meanwhile , others have made quarantine a source of comedy—the rapper DaBaby appeared on the cover of his new album wearing a face mask .
And still others have tried to harness the quietude and isolation of the moment .
The neo-soul experimentalist Mahalia released “ Isolation Tapes , ” a whisper of a project , last month .
These elements—topical humor , frustration in solitude , intimacy—are all present on “ How I ’ m Feeling Now.
” Some tracks explore the excitement and angst of sharing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Charli sings of holding a party “ only for you , for you.
” ) But the album doesn ’ t succeed because of how it speaks to the shared experience of a crisis .
Instead , it fixes its gaze on the future , and the hunger for any form of release .
This album has a slightly jagged , homespun sound that feels deeply of-the-moment , but its yearning—for community , for adrenaline , for the perfect night—is not a product of a pandemic .
It ’ s what animates so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ times , too .

Charli XCX’s “How I’m Feeling Now” channels our cooped-up state into a dance-party soundtrack that will still appeal when dance parties become legal again. Photograph by James Peltekian / Camera Press / Redux
If creativity flourishes under constraint, then, theoretically, the restrictions of quarantine should be ideal for making art. In practice, this hasn’t proved quite true. For the last two and a half months, live-streamed music events have been spotty and chaotic; standup-comedy sets on Instagram Live have been awkward and plagued by technical difficulties. Everyone, from the laymen to the celebrity class, has been rendered amateur. People have begun trying to re-create classic paintings using their pets, and Banksy transformed his bathroom into an art project, making it appear as if it had been overrun by rats. There have been flashes of frenetic D.I.Y. genius, but, in general, boredom and desperation have not been the wellspring of innovation they were once hoped to be. And, for many, it’s virtually impossible to soldier on with artistic pursuits—movie and television productions have been frozen, and many musicians have postponed projects out of financial necessity. Without the prospect of tour dates to bolster revenue, releasing an album is largely unfeasible.
And so the British pop star known as Charli XCX presents an unusual—and refreshing—case of art under quarantine. A nimble observer of pop trends for the last decade or so, she has not only embraced the physical and emotional conditions of lockdown but, in a mere thirty-nine days, has produced one of the more professional and enlivening artifacts to emerge in the COVID-19 era. When quarantine went into full effect, in March, Charli announced on a Zoom call with her fans that she would immediately begin recording her fourth album. The result, “How I’m Feeling Now,” channels our cooped-up state into a dance-party soundtrack that will still appeal when dance parties become legal again.
Which is not to say that Charli has fallen into the trap of taking quarantine too literally. “How I’m Feeling Now” is not a pure concept album. It’s a record that reveals the discomforts of quasi-captivity in brief glimpses rather than by beating listeners over the head. One of the more maddening aspects of quarantine has been how quickly it reduces our extraordinary circumstances to stale cliché: nearly everyone has experienced the same form of claustrophobic doldrums, a malaise that can’t easily be transmuted into insight. There is only one song on Charli’s album, “Anthems,” that taps into these experiences with an intense directness. She opens the song with a survey of her brain. “I’m so bored, woo!” she bellows over a strobe-like beat that mimics delirium. “Wake up late, eat some cereal, try my best to be physical,” she says. “Sometimes, I feel O.K. / Some days, I’m so frightened.” Later, she talks about aimlessly shopping online and feeling exhausted by doing nothing. But the song, like so much of the album, eventually becomes about the desire to unleash her coiled energy. “I want anthems, late nights, New York,” she yells. It’s one of her best tracks to date.
Charli entered the pop scene in 2012, when the boundaries between Top Forty and indie were beginning to dissolve. She succeeded because she could work in a state of fluidity, singing, at one moment, the hook for summer bangers (she did guest vocals on Iggy Azalea’s irresistible “Fancy” and Icona Pop’s ecstatic “I Love It”) and collaborating, in the next, with outsiders and provocateurs, often manipulating her deep, raspy voice with digital filters. Even as she’s slipped into the mainstream, she’s kept a faintly ironic attitude, making synth pop with strange, glitchy undertones. And despite her adaptive qualities, everything she does sounds like Charli. She’s the unusual trend-surfer with a trademark sound, a robust and panoramic pop filled with a longing for nighttime adventure.
One might assume that, when stuck at home, people would be more inclined to listen to music. But data suggest that, in March, music streaming dipped by about eight per cent, while TV numbers soared. A smattering of artists have been agile—or opportunistic—enough to seize the moment. Drake, ever the savvy marketer, took advantage of lockdown, in April, by releasing a song geared toward the viral dance factory of TikTok. “Toosie Slide” is a breezy song that instructs viewers how to do a rudimentary sequence of steps: “Right foot up, left foot slide,” Drake sings. (The video for the song is shot entirely in his Toronto mansion.) A few weeks later, Drake released “Dark Lane Demo Tapes,” a collection of song scraps that didn’t quite cohere as an album but that was potent enough to capture the attention of his stir-crazy fans. Meanwhile, others have made quarantine a source of comedy—the rapper DaBaby appeared on the cover of his new album wearing a face mask. And still others have tried to harness the quietude and isolation of the moment. The neo-soul experimentalist Mahalia released “Isolation Tapes,” a whisper of a project, last month.
These elements—topical humor, frustration in solitude, intimacy—are all present on “How I’m Feeling Now.” Some tracks explore the excitement and angst of sharing quarantine with a significant other. (Charli sings of holding a party “only for you, for you.”) But the album doesn’t succeed because of how it speaks to the shared experience of a crisis. Instead, it fixes its gaze on the future, and the hunger for any form of release. This album has a slightly jagged, homespun sound that feels deeply of-the-moment, but its yearning—for community, for adrenaline, for the perfect night—is not a product of a pandemic. It’s what animates so much of the best pop during ordinary times, too.


newyorker--2020-05-23--Hawaii Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

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newyorker--2020-05-24--The Complex Question of Reopening Schools

On a time line of the coronavirus crisis , Sunday , March 15th , is listed as the date when New York City ’ s public schools were ordered closed , but that ’ s not quite how things went .
Earlier that day , Mayor Bill de Blasio had said that schools should remain open , despite teachers ’ unions and public-health experts asking him to close them .
As a result , little planning had been done , and students and parents went to schools throughout the week to pick up laptops and learning materials left behind the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Thursday , teachers were required to come in for group training sessions , where some learned of colleagues who were already sick with covid-19 .
As schools across the country think about how they might reopen , that disorderly week in New York City ’ s schools—the nation ’ s largest system , with more than a million students—is worth looking back at , if only as a reminder that openings and closings are not simply a matter of turning a key .
Many of the complexities are reflected in guidelines from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ released last week .
Among other measures , they advise , if “ feasible , ” spacing desks six feet apart , having children eat lunch at their desks , and preventing younger kids from sharing toys .
Texas is allowing schools to offer in-person summer school starting June 1st , with classes limited , for now , to eleven people .
On Thursday , Tony Thurmond , California ’ s superintendent of public instruction , hosted a virtual meeting with representatives from a thousand of that state ’ s school districts , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and hybrids of remote and face-to-face learning .
California will call for disinfecting facilities more frequently , and mask-wearing , but , as in many other states , local districts will have considerable autonomy .
Difficult decisions will have to be made everywhere about sports and extracurricular activities .
Last week , Mayor de Blasio said that “ plan A ” is to have schools fully open “ as normal ” in September , but that “ there ’ s a plan B , a plan C and a plan D. You can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ alternating days , staggered schedules.
” Still , he said , remote learning might also be an option .
For many families , it is unthinkable that schools won ’ t open , although there are sharp divisions ; a Politico/Morning Consult poll of registered voters last week showed that a plurality think that remote instruction should continue in the fall .
The cost of keeping children out of classrooms is high , educationally and socially .
Lost instructional time is hard to recapture ; some high-school students may drop out .
Schools @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for many students , a safe haven , and they allow parents to go to work .
( Many schools still do ; New York City offers grab-and-go breakfast and lunch , and child care for some essential workers . )
Remote learning is a pale substitute , and its burdens are unfairly borne .
But , without a vaccine , which is not expected to be widely available until next year , many schools may stay closed—or be forced to close abruptly in the face of a second wave of infection @ @ @ @ @ @ @ become a passionate , and often politicized , part of the school debate .
One position , championed by Senator Rand Paul , among others , is that , compared with the situation with adults , there is little to worry about when it comes to children and covid-19 .
But some children become very ill and a number die .
Some of them have preëxisting conditions , while others with seemingly no risk factors succumb to the little-understood multisystem inflammatory syndrome in children , or mis-C. And infected children can be contagious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the virus impacts different populations , including the young .
The key , meanwhile , is to manage the risk , not to deny or underplay it .
Children , of course , are not the only ones in schools ; there are about 3.2 million public-school teachers nationwide , and an untold number of aides , administrators , food-service workers , custodians , guards , and school-bus drivers .
At a recent Fox News town hall , President Trump said , “ If you have a teacher that ’ s sixty-five or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that one , I think , they ’ re going to have to sit it out for a little while.
” Pronouncements like that raise questions of their own : will every at-risk teacher be furloughed or put on disability ?
Simply marginalizing vulnerable staff members is not a solution .
The United Federation of Teachers , which represents most of New York City ’ s teachers , and has been tallying the deaths of scores of its members , has reasonably said that teachers should not return unless steps are taken to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s proposals include a testing-and-contact-tracing program , a measure that has been effective in other countries .
Almost all the proposals—including another recommendation from the C.D.C.
, that seats be left empty on school buses—will require money , and so far the funding is not there .
Instead , in New York City , the schools chancellor , Richard Carranza , recently spoke of deep budget cuts .
“ Students are going to feel perhaps bigger class sizes , ” he said .
Similarly , Superintendent Thurmond announced that California , for all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ safely ” if planned cuts , amounting to more than fifteen billion dollars , go into effect .
Both officials are hoping for federal aid ; there has been a severe lack of leadership from the Trump Administration in that regard .
The pandemic , as has often been noted , offers an opportunity to reopen in a better way , with a greater recognition of inequities .
There is a risk that the reopening process will only amplify those divisions , with wealthier districts ( and private schools ) raising money for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ poorer ones left to scrounge for bandannas and disinfectant wipes .
Before the pandemic , public-school teachers spent hundreds of dollars a year of their own money on classroom supplies ; they can ’ t just be handed a new , longer shopping list .
In making reopening decisions , politicians and school officials need to listen to all parties involved .
That includes teachers but also families ; school readiness may mean parents teaching children to wear masks .
Above all , perhaps , the process should involve students .
Their perspective @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of school culture are most valuable , and how they might safely be sustained .
Students , particularly the older ones , are ultimately going to have to be trusted to follow social-distancing mandates on their own .
Faced with the threat posed by school shootings , high schoolers have at times shown more of a capacity for leadership than politicians ; in this crisis , too , they may surpass the adults around them .
That may be an education in itself .
♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
On a time line of the coronavirus crisis, Sunday, March 15th, is listed as the date when New York City’s public schools were ordered closed, but that’s not quite how things went. Earlier that day, Mayor Bill de Blasio had said that schools should remain open, despite teachers’ unions and public-health experts asking him to close them. As a result, little planning had been done, and students and parents went to schools throughout the week to pick up laptops and learning materials left behind the previous Friday. Until at least that Thursday, teachers were required to come in for group training sessions, where some learned of colleagues who were already sick with covid-19.
As schools across the country think about how they might reopen, that disorderly week in New York City’s schools—the nation’s largest system, with more than a million students—is worth looking back at, if only as a reminder that openings and closings are not simply a matter of turning a key. Many of the complexities are reflected in guidelines from the Centers for Disease Control, which were released last week. Among other measures, they advise, if “feasible,” spacing desks six feet apart, having children eat lunch at their desks, and preventing younger kids from sharing toys. Texas is allowing schools to offer in-person summer school starting June 1st, with classes limited, for now, to eleven people. On Thursday, Tony Thurmond, California’s superintendent of public instruction, hosted a virtual meeting with representatives from a thousand of that state’s school districts, discussing outdoor instruction, smaller classes, and hybrids of remote and face-to-face learning. California will call for disinfecting facilities more frequently, and mask-wearing, but, as in many other states, local districts will have considerable autonomy. Difficult decisions will have to be made everywhere about sports and extracurricular activities. Last week, Mayor de Blasio said that “plan A” is to have schools fully open “as normal” in September, but that “there’s a plan B, a plan C and a plan D. You can do all sorts of things, from alternating days, staggered schedules.” Still, he said, remote learning might also be an option.
For many families, it is unthinkable that schools won’t open, although there are sharp divisions; a Politico/Morning Consult poll of registered voters last week showed that a plurality think that remote instruction should continue in the fall. The cost of keeping children out of classrooms is high, educationally and socially. Lost instructional time is hard to recapture; some high-school students may drop out. Schools provide meals, social services, and, for many students, a safe haven, and they allow parents to go to work. (Many schools still do; New York City offers grab-and-go breakfast and lunch, and child care for some essential workers.) Remote learning is a pale substitute, and its burdens are unfairly borne. But, without a vaccine, which is not expected to be widely available until next year, many schools may stay closed—or be forced to close abruptly in the face of a second wave of infection.
The assessment of that danger has become a passionate, and often politicized, part of the school debate. One position, championed by Senator Rand Paul, among others, is that, compared with the situation with adults, there is little to worry about when it comes to children and covid-19. But some children become very ill and a number die. Some of them have preëxisting conditions, while others with seemingly no risk factors succumb to the little-understood multisystem inflammatory syndrome in children, or mis-C. And infected children can be contagious. Researchers are trying to determine how the virus impacts different populations, including the young. The key, meanwhile, is to manage the risk, not to deny or underplay it.
Children, of course, are not the only ones in schools; there are about 3.2 million public-school teachers nationwide, and an untold number of aides, administrators, food-service workers, custodians, guards, and school-bus drivers. At a recent Fox News town hall, President Trump said, “If you have a teacher that’s sixty-five or seventy years old and has diabetes, that one, I think, they’re going to have to sit it out for a little while.” Pronouncements like that raise questions of their own: will every at-risk teacher be furloughed or put on disability? Simply marginalizing vulnerable staff members is not a solution. The United Federation of Teachers, which represents most of New York City’s teachers, and has been tallying the deaths of scores of its members, has reasonably said that teachers should not return unless steps are taken to keep them safe. The union’s proposals include a testing-and-contact-tracing program, a measure that has been effective in other countries.
Almost all the proposals—including another recommendation from the C.D.C., that seats be left empty on school buses—will require money, and so far the funding is not there. Instead, in New York City, the schools chancellor, Richard Carranza, recently spoke of deep budget cuts. “Students are going to feel perhaps bigger class sizes,” he said. Similarly, Superintendent Thurmond announced that California, for all its brainstorming, “cannot reopen safely” if planned cuts, amounting to more than fifteen billion dollars, go into effect. Both officials are hoping for federal aid; there has been a severe lack of leadership from the Trump Administration in that regard.
The pandemic, as has often been noted, offers an opportunity to reopen in a better way, with a greater recognition of inequities. There is a risk that the reopening process will only amplify those divisions, with wealthier districts (and private schools) raising money for infrared thermometers and contact tracers, and poorer ones left to scrounge for bandannas and disinfectant wipes. Before the pandemic, public-school teachers spent hundreds of dollars a year of their own money on classroom supplies; they can’t just be handed a new, longer shopping list.
In making reopening decisions, politicians and school officials need to listen to all parties involved. That includes teachers but also families; school readiness may mean parents teaching children to wear masks. Above all, perhaps, the process should involve students. Their perspective deserves respect in sorting out what aspects of school culture are most valuable, and how they might safely be sustained. Students, particularly the older ones, are ultimately going to have to be trusted to follow social-distancing mandates on their own. Faced with the threat posed by school shootings, high schoolers have at times shown more of a capacity for leadership than politicians; in this crisis, too, they may surpass the adults around them. That may be an education in itself. ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-24--Sunday Reading: First Encounters with Legendary Figures

In 1962 , A. J. Liebling visited a Chelsea gymnasium and spoke with a twenty-year-old boxer named Cassius Clay on the eve of his professional début in New York , at Madison Square Garden .
“ Poet and Pedagogue , ” Liebling ’ s report , captures Muhammad Ali , as Clay would later be known , in the early days of his career .
As a fighter , he writes , Ali has a “ skittering style , like a pebble scaled over water.
” At the gym that day , Ali seemed more interested in sharing his dazzling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Sonny Banks .
Noting that Ali freestyled between sit-ups , Liebling reflected on the young boxer ’ s athleticism and virtuosity .
“ He is probably the only poet in America who can recite this way , ” he writes .
“ I would like to see T. S. Eliot try.
” This week , we ’ re bringing you a selection of pieces on first encounters with artists , writers , and other notable figures—stories that capture fascinating talents when they were young and less well known .
In “ Survival , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lieutenant named John F. Kennedy , who fought to save his crew after his ship was rammed , by a Japanese destroyer , during the Second World War .
In “ Godard Est Godard , ” from 1965 , Lillian Ross discusses the state of cinema with a young French New Wave director named Jean-Luc Godard .
In “ Oxford Man , ” Harold Ross and Charles Cooke chronicle William Faulkner ’ s second trip to New York , as he works on a new novel , “ Light in August.
” ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ writes , but his father doesn ’ t bother and suspects his son is wasting his time.
” ) In “ Keanu Reeves ( In Theory ) , ” from 1994 , Susan Orlean speaks with an instructor who has designed a university course based on the twenty-nine-year-old actor ’ s body of work .
Janet Flanner examines Bette Davis ’ s career trajectory from fledgling Broadway actress to breakout film star , and Hilton Als profiles the rising hip-hop musician Missy Elliott , several months after the release of her début solo @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( “ Missy approaches rapping the way jazz musicians approach jazz—as an improvisational musical form.
” ) In “ Let ’ s Pretend , ” Ingrid Sischy explores Cindy Sherman ’ s provocative and edgy photography .
In a concert column , Douglas Watt describes the comedian Lenny Bruce ’ s battle against hypocrisy .
Andy Logan , in a piece from 1945 , talks with the playwright Tennessee Williams about his new hit show , “ The Glass Menagerie.
” In “ Coming Star , ” from 1962 , Geoffrey T. Hellman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ singer and actress who had been wowing audiences on Broadway .
Finally , in “ That Sad Young Man , ” from 1926 , John C. Mosher catches up with the novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald , who complains , in part , about feeling quite old , now that he is almost thirty .
Taken together , these pieces capture legendary , illustrious figures in the act of becoming themselves .
Long before he became President , J.F.K .
battled to save himself and his men while adrift in the South Pacific .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ like a pebble scaled over water .
He ’ s the only poet—or boxer—in America who can recite this way .
A college class on Keanu , from “ My Own Private Idaho ” to the actor ’ s “ Bill and Ted ” films .
Bette Davis ’ s almost regal power in Hollywood still startles her , and she makes no use of it .
As a rap star , she ’ s the bomb .
As a music-video producer , she ’ s set a new style .
Is Missy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The standup comic ’ s one-man war against cant and hypocrisy .
The director of “ Breathless ” in person .
F. Scott Fitzgerald is wary of the limitations of his experience .
Lady Clementina Hawarden ’ s photographs were born of one of the few things in life in which women have traditionally been granted more opportunity for self-expression than men—dressing up .

Photograph from Minnesota Historical Society / Corbis / Getty
In 1962, A. J. Liebling visited a Chelsea gymnasium and spoke with a twenty-year-old boxer named Cassius Clay on the eve of his professional début in New York, at Madison Square Garden. “Poet and Pedagogue,” Liebling’s report, captures Muhammad Ali, as Clay would later be known, in the early days of his career. As a fighter, he writes, Ali has a “skittering style, like a pebble scaled over water.” At the gym that day, Ali seemed more interested in sharing his dazzling verses than discussing his upcoming match with Sonny Banks. Noting that Ali freestyled between sit-ups, Liebling reflected on the young boxer’s athleticism and virtuosity. “He is probably the only poet in America who can recite this way,” he writes. “I would like to see T. S. Eliot try.”
This week, we’re bringing you a selection of pieces on first encounters with artists, writers, and other notable figures—stories that capture fascinating talents when they were young and less well known. In “Survival,” John Hersey writes about a naval lieutenant named John F. Kennedy, who fought to save his crew after his ship was rammed, by a Japanese destroyer, during the Second World War. In “Godard Est Godard,” from 1965, Lillian Ross discusses the state of cinema with a young French New Wave director named Jean-Luc Godard. In “Oxford Man,” Harold Ross and Charles Cooke chronicle William Faulkner’s second trip to New York, as he works on a new novel, “Light in August.” (“His mother reads every line he writes, but his father doesn’t bother and suspects his son is wasting his time.”) In “Keanu Reeves (In Theory),” from 1994, Susan Orlean speaks with an instructor who has designed a university course based on the twenty-nine-year-old actor’s body of work. Janet Flanner examines Bette Davis’s career trajectory from fledgling Broadway actress to breakout film star, and Hilton Als profiles the rising hip-hop musician Missy Elliott, several months after the release of her début solo album, “Supa Dupa Fly.” (“Missy approaches rapping the way jazz musicians approach jazz—as an improvisational musical form.”) In “Let’s Pretend,” Ingrid Sischy explores Cindy Sherman’s provocative and edgy photography. In a concert column, Douglas Watt describes the comedian Lenny Bruce’s battle against hypocrisy. Andy Logan, in a piece from 1945, talks with the playwright Tennessee Williams about his new hit show, “The Glass Menagerie.” In “Coming Star,” from 1962, Geoffrey T. Hellman writes about Barbra Streisand, a twenty-year-old singer and actress who had been wowing audiences on Broadway. Finally, in “That Sad Young Man,” from 1926, John C. Mosher catches up with the novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald, who complains, in part, about feeling quite old, now that he is almost thirty. Taken together, these pieces capture legendary, illustrious figures in the act of becoming themselves.
Photograph from Bettmann / Getty
Long before he became President, J.F.K. battled to save himself and his men while adrift in the South Pacific.
William Faulkner at home.
Photograph from Bettmann / Getty
Cassius Clay has a skittering style, like a pebble scaled over water. He’s the only poet—or boxer—in America who can recite this way.
Photograph by Aaron Rapoport / Corbis / Getty
A college class on Keanu, from “My Own Private Idaho” to the actor’s “Bill and Ted” films.
Bette Davis’s almost regal power in Hollywood still startles her, and she makes no use of it.
Photograph by Max Vadukul
As a rap star, she’s the bomb. As a music-video producer, she’s set a new style. Is Missy Elliott music’s next transformer?
Tennessee Williams looks back.
Photograph by Dennis Stock / Magnum
The standup comic’s one-man war against cant and hypocrisy.
The director of “Breathless” in person.
Photograph from CBS Photo Archive / Getty
The young singer discusses her Broadway début.
F. Scott Fitzgerald is wary of the limitations of his experience.
Lady Clementina Hawarden’s photographs were born of one of the few things in life in which women have traditionally been granted more opportunity for self-expression than men—dressing up.