newyorker--2020-03-06--No One Is Writing Better Country Songs than Brandy Clark Is

Three songs into a set last month in Wichita , Kansas , the country singer-songwriter Brandy Clark issued a neighborly warning to the people in the audience , most of whom had come to see the night ’ s headliner , Tanya Tucker , and may have heard Clark ’ s name for the first time just a few moments before , when she was introduced over the loudspeaker .
“ I hope you ’ re not offended easily , ” Clark said , smiling .
Then she launched into a story song about a woman with whom most of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ familiar terms .
“ She hates her job , loves her kids , ” Clark sang .
“ Bored with her husband , tired of the same old list of things to do.
” To unwind at the end of another tedious day , this woman sits down and “ rolls herself a fat one.
” And then on to the chorus : “ Sometimes the only way to get by is to get high.
” Perhaps someone at the show was offended , but mostly I saw knowing nods and , as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more people singing along .
“ Get High ” is from Clark ’ s début album , “ 12 Stories , ” which was released in 2013 .
The rest of the Wichita set was largely devoted to songs from her new album , “ Your Life Is a Record , ” which is out this week .
She played the rowdy revenge fantasy “ Long Walk , ” which had the crowd laughing at its wicked punch lines , and “ Who You Thought I Was , ” a song that turns @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and which prompted people to lean forward to hear every word .
Clark has been winning new fans this way for years , one catchy , finely chiselled song at a time .
With any luck or justice , the lonely and lustrous country-pop of “ Your Life Is a Record ” will earn her many more .
But her previous album should have been a smash , too : “ Big Day in a Small Town , ” from 2016 , is terrific , and its lead single , “ Girl @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have been more perfect for radio , with hooks and beats and stacked rhymes .
Except that , over the past decade , country radio has mostly exiled songs with ambivalent or outright unhappy endings—especially when a woman ’ s voice is singing them .
According to the musicologist Jada Watson , in 2018 , the ratio of men ’ s records to women ’ s that were played on country radio was nearly ten to one .
Brandy Clark is something of a critical darling ; her first two albums generated five @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people , including a lot of country fans , have never heard of her , for the same reason that a lot of people have never heard of Cam , Mickey Guyton , Nikki Lane , Yola , Ashley McBryde , Ashley Monroe , Kellie Pickler , Kelsey Waldon , and others .
All these women—and a dozen more besides—have released singles over the past several years that , in a less restrictive radio environment , might have found , at the least , a chance to compete for airplay .
But country @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a radio format , exists with a maddening contradiction : for nearly a decade now , women have been practically excluded from mainstream-country-radio playlists , even as the lion ’ s share of the best country music is increasingly written and performed by women .
And no one illustrates that better than Clark , who writes songs as well as anyone .
Clark , who ’ s forty-four , and grew up in the tiny lumber town of Morton , Washington , built her reputation by writing songs for other artists—often , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with Shane McAnally , and usually a third writer , too .
She co-wrote the Band Perry ’ s gothic melodrama “ Better Dig Two , ” in which the singer promises to love her partner till death do us part , then repeats the pledge with such escalating vehemence that the vow starts to sound like a threat .
She co-wrote Miranda Lambert ’ s “ Mama ’ s Broken Heart , ” which , like “ Better Dig Two , ” was a radio hit .
She also co-wrote LeAnn Rimes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Reba McEntire ’ s “ The Day She Got Divorced , ” Sunny Sweeney ’ s “ Bad Girl Phase , ” Hailey Whitters ’ s “ Ten Year Town , ” and Kacey Musgraves ’ s “ Follow Your Arrow.
” Clark ’ s songs have been cut by everyone from George Strait and Toby Keith to Darius Rucker and Sheryl Crow .
Clark writes most often about luckless characters—women , usually—who are struggling , pissed off , or both .
The issues at hand are typically working-class and kitchen-table .
( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Get High ” rolls a joint , while the dinner dishes soak . )
Both the title track of Clark ’ s second album , “ Big Day in a Small Town , ” from 2016 , and that album ’ s opener , “ Soap Opera , ” are about the melodramas that go down in rural places where nothing much seems to be going on .
The woman in “ Three Kids , No Husband ” —which was co-written with another of the moment ’ s finest country songwriters , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she might have had to make it big .
Now she just hopes she can make it .
“ There ’ s how you plan it out , and how it turns out to be , ” Clark sings .
Clark ’ s songs capture the routine frustrations and indignities of life in America among the white working class , and although her tone is never bitter or mocking , she doesn ’ t deny the ironies and absurdities of that life , either .
“ We load our kids up in our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , we hit the mini-mart , ” she sings in “ Pray to Jesus , ” one of her début ’ s sharpest numbers .
In the chorus , she sings about the only two ways “ we can change tomorrow ” : praying to Jesus and playing the lotto .
The details in Clark ’ s songs reveal how material conditions inform you-just-can ’ t-win world views .
On “ Bad Car , ” from the new album , she sings , “ It always needs a jump , it always needs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s death and taxes and the ‘ check engine ’ light blinkin ’ on.
” The title of “ 12 Stories ” seems to nod to “ 12 Songs , ” Randy Newman ’ s second album , from 1970 ; on the new record , Clark duets with Newman on a song called “ Bigger Boat , ” a jaunty ship-of-state satire where “ we keep waiting on the wind to blow ” and no one can “ agree on who should be captain.
” It ’ s not her finest work @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the wry , pessimistic wit that Clark and Newman share .
“ We ’ re either all the way left or all the way right / The only time we meet in the middle is to fight , ” Clark sings .
“ The rich get richer , the rest get a little more broke .
/ We ’ re gon na need a bigger boat.
” Clark has said that much of “ Your Life Is a Record ” was inspired by the end of a long romantic relationship , and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be the most personal lyrics of her career .
“ Who You Thought I Was ” is a generous but self-critical admission that she could have been a far better partner .
In “ Who Broke Whose Heart , ” Clark tries to divvy up blame before confessing the only things she ’ s sure of : “ I loved you .
And you loved me .
So fuck the rest.
” But here , too , as elsewhere , Clark leans hard into common experiences : the telling details in her songs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It ’ s your life that ’ s a record , not just hers .
That title line comes from the album opener , “ I ’ ll Be the Sad Song , ” a just-lovely bit of personal heartbreak that , typical of her approach , Clark presents as a bittersweet sing-along .
It ’ s about how we all mark our lives by songs we ’ ve loved .
Near its end , a Dobro conjures an unexpected Beatles-esque lick and then dissolves to silence .
Horns , maybe lifted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ emerge and quickly disappear .
Your songs may vary .

Brandy Clark’s songs capture the routine indignities of life in America among the white working class. Photograph by Chris Phelps
Three songs into a set last month in Wichita, Kansas, the country singer-songwriter Brandy Clark issued a neighborly warning to the people in the audience, most of whom had come to see the night’s headliner, Tanya Tucker, and may have heard Clark’s name for the first time just a few moments before, when she was introduced over the loudspeaker. “I hope you’re not offended easily,” Clark said, smiling. Then she launched into a story song about a woman with whom most of those present seemed to be on quite familiar terms. “She hates her job, loves her kids,” Clark sang. “Bored with her husband, tired of the same old list of things to do.” To unwind at the end of another tedious day, this woman sits down and “rolls herself a fat one.” And then on to the chorus: “Sometimes the only way to get by is to get high.” Perhaps someone at the show was offended, but mostly I saw knowing nods and, as the song went on, more and more people singing along.
“Get High” is from Clark’s début album, “12 Stories,” which was released in 2013. The rest of the Wichita set was largely devoted to songs from her new album, “Your Life Is a Record,” which is out this week. She played the rowdy revenge fantasy “Long Walk,” which had the crowd laughing at its wicked punch lines, and “Who You Thought I Was,” a song that turns unexpectedly from childhood dreams to adult regrets, and which prompted people to lean forward to hear every word. Clark has been winning new fans this way for years, one catchy, finely chiselled song at a time. With any luck or justice, the lonely and lustrous country-pop of “Your Life Is a Record” will earn her many more. But her previous album should have been a smash, too: “Big Day in a Small Town,” from 2016, is terrific, and its lead single, “Girl Next Door,” couldn’t have been more perfect for radio, with hooks and beats and stacked rhymes. Except that, over the past decade, country radio has mostly exiled songs with ambivalent or outright unhappy endings—especially when a woman’s voice is singing them.
According to the musicologist Jada Watson, in 2018, the ratio of men’s records to women’s that were played on country radio was nearly ten to one. Brandy Clark is something of a critical darling; her first two albums generated five Grammy nominations. But a lot of people, including a lot of country fans, have never heard of her, for the same reason that a lot of people have never heard of Cam, Mickey Guyton, Nikki Lane, Yola, Ashley McBryde, Ashley Monroe, Kellie Pickler, Kelsey Waldon, and others. All these women—and a dozen more besides—have released singles over the past several years that, in a less restrictive radio environment, might have found, at the least, a chance to compete for airplay. But country music, both as a genre and as a radio format, exists with a maddening contradiction: for nearly a decade now, women have been practically excluded from mainstream-country-radio playlists, even as the lion’s share of the best country music is increasingly written and performed by women. And no one illustrates that better than Clark, who writes songs as well as anyone.
Clark, who’s forty-four, and grew up in the tiny lumber town of Morton, Washington, built her reputation by writing songs for other artists—often, in Nashville’s collaborative way, with Shane McAnally, and usually a third writer, too. She co-wrote the Band Perry’s gothic melodrama “Better Dig Two,” in which the singer promises to love her partner till death do us part, then repeats the pledge with such escalating vehemence that the vow starts to sound like a threat. She co-wrote Miranda Lambert’s “Mama’s Broken Heart,” which, like “Better Dig Two,” was a radio hit. She also co-wrote LeAnn Rimes’s “Crazy Women,” Reba McEntire’s “The Day She Got Divorced,” Sunny Sweeney’s “Bad Girl Phase,” Hailey Whitters’s “Ten Year Town,” and Kacey Musgraves’s “Follow Your Arrow.” Clark’s songs have been cut by everyone from George Strait and Toby Keith to Darius Rucker and Sheryl Crow.
Clark writes most often about luckless characters—women, usually—who are struggling, pissed off, or both. The issues at hand are typically working-class and kitchen-table. (That’s where the woman in “Get High” rolls a joint, while the dinner dishes soak.) Both the title track of Clark’s second album, “Big Day in a Small Town,” from 2016, and that album’s opener, “Soap Opera,” are about the melodramas that go down in rural places where nothing much seems to be going on. The woman in “Three Kids, No Husband”—which was co-written with another of the moment’s finest country songwriters, Lori McKenna—has long ago dumped any dreams she might have had to make it big. Now she just hopes she can make it. “There’s how you plan it out, and how it turns out to be,” Clark sings.
Clark’s songs capture the routine frustrations and indignities of life in America among the white working class, and although her tone is never bitter or mocking, she doesn’t deny the ironies and absurdities of that life, either. “We load our kids up in our new used car and, after church, we hit the mini-mart,” she sings in “Pray to Jesus,” one of her début’s sharpest numbers. In the chorus, she sings about the only two ways “we can change tomorrow”: praying to Jesus and playing the lotto. The details in Clark’s songs reveal how material conditions inform you-just-can’t-win world views. On “Bad Car,” from the new album, she sings, “It always needs a jump, it always needs Freon, / Yeah, there’s death and taxes and the ‘check engine’ light blinkin’ on.”
The title of “12 Stories” seems to nod to “12 Songs,” Randy Newman’s second album, from 1970; on the new record, Clark duets with Newman on a song called “Bigger Boat,” a jaunty ship-of-state satire where “we keep waiting on the wind to blow” and no one can “agree on who should be captain.” It’s not her finest work, or his, but it highlights the wry, pessimistic wit that Clark and Newman share. “We’re either all the way left or all the way right / The only time we meet in the middle is to fight,” Clark sings. “The rich get richer, the rest get a little more broke. / We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
Clark has said that much of “Your Life Is a Record” was inspired by the end of a long romantic relationship, and the album includes what at least appear to be the most personal lyrics of her career. “Who You Thought I Was” is a generous but self-critical admission that she could have been a far better partner. In “Who Broke Whose Heart,” Clark tries to divvy up blame before confessing the only things she’s sure of: “I loved you. And you loved me. So fuck the rest.” But here, too, as elsewhere, Clark leans hard into common experiences: the telling details in her songs have a communal rather than idiosyncratic specificity. It’s your life that’s a record, not just hers.
That title line comes from the album opener, “I’ll Be the Sad Song,” a just-lovely bit of personal heartbreak that, typical of her approach, Clark presents as a bittersweet sing-along. It’s about how we all mark our lives by songs we’ve loved. Near its end, a Dobro conjures an unexpected Beatles-esque lick and then dissolves to silence. Horns, maybe lifted off some old Dionne Warwick record, emerge and quickly disappear. Your songs may vary.
In a time when people are more likely to stream music than to spin it, the album’s central metaphor is almost quaint, but still apt. A number of the songs on “Your Life Is a Record” are in conversation with hits from earlier eras. “Love Is a Fire” fans flames similar to those in Johnny Cash’s bellowing “Ring of Fire” (except that Clark’s iteration of the theme actually sounds erotic, with its squirmy beats and heaving strings). “Pawn Shop,” in which a woman hocks her engagement ring to buy a bus ticket out of town, will remind many country fans of “Golden Ring,” by George Jones and Tammy Wynette: in both songs, the pawned ring inspires new dreams. “Dreams don’t die even when they’re broken,” Clark sings. “Tomorrow when that sign says ‘open,’ that guitar oh that wedding band will start a new dream, secondhand.” That last line, echoed by ghostly harmonies and trailed by sprightly guitar picking, may, like several other moments on the album, put classic-rock fans in mind of Fleetwood Mac, a rhythmic and harmonic touchstone for many contemporary country acts.
All of Clark’s albums have terrific songs, but “Your Life Is a Record” is the best-sounding album that she’s released. That’s partly thanks to the producer Jay Joyce, with whom Clark also worked on “Big Day in a Small Town,” and partly thanks to the string-and-horn arrangements by Lester Snell, a Memphis studio vet here working a more purely pop vibe. Maybe that great sound will help the album break through; last week, five of the top twenty spots on Billboard’s Country Airplay chart were held by women. It should have been more, but, then, there was a week a little more than a year ago when the number was zero. With a deck that stacked against them, it’s a wonder people know any women country artists at all, even ones as good as Clark.
“Your Life Is a Record” closes with “The Past Is the Past,” a fragile woebegone ballad of the hit-the-road-and-begin-fresh variety, a venerable and still urgent category of country hit. “Let your wheels roll, let your wheels roll,” Clark whispers, willing herself to go. “Turned the key, found your future in that pedal on the floor,” she sings, her voice and vision both a little misty. She tunes in to a station: “Let your heartbreak beat to the radio.” If only.


newyorker--2020-03-06--What’s at Stake in the Takeover of Cahiers du Cinéma

There have been many terrific magazines devoted to movies , but only one such magazine is both a mainspring of the history of the art form and an ongoing meme : Cahiers du Cinéma .
The French monthly , founded in 1951 , gave the world three crucial things : the word “ auteur , ” the recognition of Alfred Hitchcock and other Hollywood filmmakers as great artists , and the French New Wave , whose filmmakers were launched there , as critics .
The magazine ( “ cahier ” means “ notebook ” or “ exercise book , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has remained a vital source of information and judgment on a wide range of movies , both French and international .
( The most recent issue that I ’ ve received , dated February , features a long and extraordinary interview with Martin Scorsese . )
But a chapter in the history of Cahiers , and therefore in the history of cinema , is apparently coming to a close : in early February , the magazine , which has been losing money ( though supposedly it is close to breaking even ) , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the British publisher Richard Schlagman , to a consortium of twenty French businesspeople and firms that includes several of the most prominent French movie producers and production companies .
The new managing director will be Julie Lethiphu , the head of the Société des Réalisateurs de Films ( Film Directors ’ Company , a trade group ) .
On February 27th , the magazine ’ s entire editorial staff resigned ; in a joint press release , the staff explained their decision , saying that the presence of eight producers among the owners @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for editors and critics .
Also , the staff noted that some of the magazine ’ s political articles—such as ones that are critical of media representations of yellow-vest protesters , changes in educational and cultural policy , and the current Minister of Culture—place the new shareholders in open opposition to them .
Since I began subscribing to Cahiers , in the late nineteen-eighties , I ’ ve found its emphases and positions to be immensely stimulating and enlightening ; a mere description of its contents suggests the wealth of perspectives that it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ample review of the Tunisian film “ Sortilège ” and an interview with its director , Ala Eddine Slim ; reviews of the French director Mariana Otero ’ s documentary “ History of a Gaze , ” Todd Haynes ’ s “ Dark Waters , ” and Clint Eastwood ’ s “ Richard Jewell.
” It devotes only capsule reviews to a number of films , including sharply negative ones for “ 1917 ” and the new film by Michel Hazanavicius ( the director of “ The Artist ” ) .
It also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trebal , whose first dramatic feature , “ Douze Mille , ” got an enthusiastic review in the January issue , as well as articles about the state of moviegoing elsewhere in Europe , a long and detailed review of “ The Irishman ” coupled with a piece on the Netflix effect ( sparked by the fact that , in France , Scorsese ’ s film is viewable only there ) , discussions of largely forgotten French films and filmmakers of the nineteen-eighties , a piece on Jean Renoir ’ s “ The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ surveillance , and an extensive tribute to the late Anna Karina .
In short , Cahiers balances French cinema and world cinema , the art and the economy of filmmaking , the politics of images , and the prominent and hidden histories of cinema—and does so with a frank commitment to advocacy and polemics .
It ’ s a deft balancing act that ’ s pulled off by means of the quality of the writing and the reporting .
( Full disclosure : I wrote for the magazine once , in 2014 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) Yet it ’ s also significantly at a countercurrent from the mainstream of the French cinema—and of the French art-house cinema , which is the industry ’ s principal export—and that ’ s where the new owners , from the start , placed pressure .
Soon after the purchase was announced , the head of the consortium , Éric Lenoir ( the C.E.O .
of a company that makes public fixtures such as bus-stop benches and kiosks ) , declared that the group planned to take the magazine in a new direction @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ standing ” ( that ’ s the French word , too ) , to print on heavier stock , with a new layout that would be more “ chic.
” Though the makeover and the jargon are easy to mock , they ’ re innocuous enough ; but his plans didn ’ t stop there .
Lenoir spoke of “ reconnecting ” with the magazine ’ s “ tradition of openness , debate , partnerships .
Openness doesn ’ t mean tepidness , of course , but one can be convivial without @ @ @ @ @ @ @ insulting.
” Lenoir ’ s specifics include considering “ partnerships ” and “ collaborations with the Cannes festival , institutions , the teaching of cinema , with thinkers of cinema.
” What ’ s more , the French business magazine Les Échos reported that the new owners have other plans in mind : “ The buyers want Cahiers to recover its central place in the community of French auteur cinema .
This won ’ t prevent the magazine from covering world cinema , but French directors will be invited to write for it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have special issues devoted to them.
” What this sounds like is a plan for Cahiers to become a promotional magazine for the artistic mainstream , the art-house consensus , of the French cinema .
Although the new owners suggest that doing so is a way of reconnecting with the magazine ’ s legacy , it strikes me rather as a betrayal of its past , for reasons that a bit of history will make clear .
Cahiers was founded in 1951 , largely under the guidance of the great critic and theorist @ @ @ @ @ @ @ energized by a new spirit in French cinema .
In its first year , the editors brought in Maurice Schérer , a.k.a .
Éric Rohmer , a then thirty-one-year-old high-school teacher , novelist , critic , and independent filmmaker who also ran a film society and published a small journal , La Gazette du Cinéma , in which he printed work by young acolytes who were barely , or not yet , twenty—notably , Jean-Luc Godard , François Truffaut , and Jacques Rivette .
And Rohmer brought these brilliant , passionate , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their own directorial careers ) into Cahiers .
That magazine ’ s watershed moment was the publication , in the January , 1954 , issue , of an essay by Truffaut , “ A Certain Tendency of the French Cinema , ” which in effect treated the entire French movie industry like Sodom and Gomorrah and didn ’ t spare even ten directors—Truffaut came up with only eight to rescue from his diatribe .
He did more than challenge the mainstream ; he furiously denounced France ’ s internationally respected so-called “ tradition @ @ @ @ @ @ @ realism , ” and declared , with a chilling polemical fury , that he envisioned no “ peaceful coexistence ” of that cinema and the “ auteur ’ s cinema.
” Most of the eight whom he endorsed as authentic “ auteurs ” —Jean Renoir , Robert Bresson , Jean Cocteau , Jacques Becker , Abel Gance , Max Ophüls , Jacques Tati , and Roger Leenhardt—were outsiders , overlooked or derided by the critical establishment .
The essay is strange , scattershot , and somewhat old-fashioned , yet he discerned the best @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anticipating a generational and artistic revolution—one that , as a filmmaker , a few years later , he helped to realize .
( Fascinatingly , one of the critiques levelled , in the same issue , against mainstream French cinema—by Truffaut ’ s elder colleague , the Cahiers editor Jacques Doniol-Valcroze—involved the portrayal of women : “ If you ’ re not careful , French cinema will soon be nothing but a lubricious old man leering at an undressed minx .
” )

Since 1951, Cahiers du Cinéma has been a vital source on both French and international film. Photograph from RGR Collection / Cahiers Du Cinema / Alamy
There have been many terrific magazines devoted to movies, but only one such magazine is both a mainspring of the history of the art form and an ongoing meme: Cahiers du Cinéma. The French monthly, founded in 1951, gave the world three crucial things: the word “auteur,” the recognition of Alfred Hitchcock and other Hollywood filmmakers as great artists, and the French New Wave, whose filmmakers were launched there, as critics.
The magazine (“cahier” means “notebook” or “exercise book,” a classroom tool) still exists and has remained a vital source of information and judgment on a wide range of movies, both French and international. (The most recent issue that I’ve received, dated February, features a long and extraordinary interview with Martin Scorsese.) But a chapter in the history of Cahiers, and therefore in the history of cinema, is apparently coming to a close: in early February, the magazine, which has been losing money (though supposedly it is close to breaking even), was sold by its previous owner, the British publisher Richard Schlagman, to a consortium of twenty French businesspeople and firms that includes several of the most prominent French movie producers and production companies. The new managing director will be Julie Lethiphu, the head of the Société des Réalisateurs de Films (Film Directors’ Company, a trade group). On February 27th, the magazine’s entire editorial staff resigned; in a joint press release, the staff explained their decision, saying that the presence of eight producers among the owners would necessarily create a conflict of interest for editors and critics. Also, the staff noted that some of the magazine’s political articles—such as ones that are critical of media representations of yellow-vest protesters, changes in educational and cultural policy, and the current Minister of Culture—place the new shareholders in open opposition to them.
Since I began subscribing to Cahiers, in the late nineteen-eighties, I’ve found its emphases and positions to be immensely stimulating and enlightening; a mere description of its contents suggests the wealth of perspectives that it offers. The February issue features an ample review of the Tunisian film “Sortilège” and an interview with its director, Ala Eddine Slim; reviews of the French director Mariana Otero’s documentary “History of a Gaze,” Todd Haynes’s “Dark Waters,” and Clint Eastwood’s “Richard Jewell.” It devotes only capsule reviews to a number of films, including sharply negative ones for “1917” and the new film by Michel Hazanavicius (the director of “The Artist”). It also features an interview with the director Nadège Trebal, whose first dramatic feature, “Douze Mille,” got an enthusiastic review in the January issue, as well as articles about the state of moviegoing elsewhere in Europe, a long and detailed review of “The Irishman” coupled with a piece on the Netflix effect (sparked by the fact that, in France, Scorsese’s film is viewable only there), discussions of largely forgotten French films and filmmakers of the nineteen-eighties, a piece on Jean Renoir’s “The Southerner,” a dossier on video surveillance, and an extensive tribute to the late Anna Karina.
In short, Cahiers balances French cinema and world cinema, the art and the economy of filmmaking, the politics of images, and the prominent and hidden histories of cinema—and does so with a frank commitment to advocacy and polemics. It’s a deft balancing act that’s pulled off by means of the quality of the writing and the reporting. (Full disclosure: I wrote for the magazine once, in 2014, and was interviewed there in 2019.) Yet it’s also significantly at a countercurrent from the mainstream of the French cinema—and of the French art-house cinema, which is the industry’s principal export—and that’s where the new owners, from the start, placed pressure.
Soon after the purchase was announced, the head of the consortium, Éric Lenoir (the C.E.O. of a company that makes public fixtures such as bus-stop benches and kiosks), declared that the group planned to take the magazine in a new direction: he wanted it to regain its “standing” (that’s the French word, too), to print on heavier stock, with a new layout that would be more “chic.” Though the makeover and the jargon are easy to mock, they’re innocuous enough; but his plans didn’t stop there. Lenoir spoke of “reconnecting” with the magazine’s “tradition of openness, debate, partnerships. Openness doesn’t mean tepidness, of course, but one can be convivial without being consensus-based. And critical without being insulting.”
Lenoir’s specifics include considering “partnerships” and “collaborations with the Cannes festival, institutions, the teaching of cinema, with thinkers of cinema.” What’s more, the French business magazine Les Échos reported that the new owners have other plans in mind: “The buyers want Cahiers to recover its central place in the community of French auteur cinema. This won’t prevent the magazine from covering world cinema, but French directors will be invited to write for it, will be interviewed, or will have special issues devoted to them.” What this sounds like is a plan for Cahiers to become a promotional magazine for the artistic mainstream, the art-house consensus, of the French cinema. Although the new owners suggest that doing so is a way of reconnecting with the magazine’s legacy, it strikes me rather as a betrayal of its past, for reasons that a bit of history will make clear.
Cahiers was founded in 1951, largely under the guidance of the great critic and theorist André Bazin, and was soon also energized by a new spirit in French cinema. In its first year, the editors brought in Maurice Schérer, a.k.a. Éric Rohmer, a then thirty-one-year-old high-school teacher, novelist, critic, and independent filmmaker who also ran a film society and published a small journal, La Gazette du Cinéma, in which he printed work by young acolytes who were barely, or not yet, twenty—notably, Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, and Jacques Rivette. And Rohmer brought these brilliant, passionate, and visionary critics (who were already envisioning their own directorial careers) into Cahiers.
That magazine’s watershed moment was the publication, in the January, 1954, issue, of an essay by Truffaut, “A Certain Tendency of the French Cinema,” which in effect treated the entire French movie industry like Sodom and Gomorrah and didn’t spare even ten directors—Truffaut came up with only eight to rescue from his diatribe. He did more than challenge the mainstream; he furiously denounced France’s internationally respected so-called “tradition of quality” and its “psychological realism,” and declared, with a chilling polemical fury, that he envisioned no “peaceful coexistence” of that cinema and the “auteur’s cinema.” Most of the eight whom he endorsed as authentic “auteurs”—Jean Renoir, Robert Bresson, Jean Cocteau, Jacques Becker, Abel Gance, Max Ophüls, Jacques Tati, and Roger Leenhardt—were outsiders, overlooked or derided by the critical establishment. The essay is strange, scattershot, and somewhat old-fashioned, yet he discerned the best French directors of the time while also anticipating a generational and artistic revolution—one that, as a filmmaker, a few years later, he helped to realize. (Fascinatingly, one of the critiques levelled, in the same issue, against mainstream French cinema—by Truffaut’s elder colleague, the Cahiers editor Jacques Doniol-Valcroze—involved the portrayal of women: “If you’re not careful, French cinema will soon be nothing but a lubricious old man leering at an undressed minx.”)


newyorker--2020-03-06--“The Way Back” and “Sorry We Missed You,” Reviewed: Two Oblivious Depictions of the Working Class

An element of stifled pain in Ben Affleck ’ s gaze dominates the drama of “ The Way Back , ” which opens Friday , and nearly renders the film ’ s absurdities and shortcuts moving and coherent .
It ’ s a redemption-through-sports movie that doesn ’ t offer enough about sports or redemption , a coping-through-grief tale that , far from confronting the anguish on which it ’ s based , treats it only as one piece in a narrative jigsaw puzzle .
Affleck plays Jack Cunningham , a construction worker living alone in the small coastal California @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to work , drives to a bar called Harold ’ s Place , and drinks alone—until , inexplicably late in the movie , it ’ s revealed that he actually knows more or less everyone in the place and engages them in sloshy bar talk .
He then goes home , to an apartment up a flight of rickety steps , and drinks some more .
He has a cell phone but doesn ’ t carry it—he leaves it at home , using it only as an answering machine , the better to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ call to check up on him .
Jack arrives drunk at the house of his sister ( Michaela Watkins ) and her family on Thanksgiving , and continues drinking throughout the meal ; he bristles when she mentions Angela ( Janina Gavankar ) , his wife , from whom he ’ s separated , and he reacts aggressively when she confides in him that a mutual friend is worried about his drinking .
Drinking en route to his job , and drinking from a metal cannister on the job , Jack is clearly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day , he comes home to an odd phone message , one that he chooses to respond to : he ’ s summoned to the office of Father Edward Devine ( John Aylward ) , an elderly priest who ’ s also the headmaster of Bishop Hayes , the Catholic school from which Jack graduated , in 1995 .
Jack was , it turns out , a basketball star who led the team to a championship ; now Father Devine asks him to step in , immediately , as the coach of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coach suffered a heart attack . )
At home that night , Jack kills a dozen or more cans of beer while crafting the phrasing of his refusal—but then agrees to take the job .
The team that Jack inherits is terrible and demoralized ; the players achieve little and don ’ t take their playing , training , or team discipline very seriously .
At first , Jack ’ s own casual attitude—and his pent-up rage , and his long-suppressed ( yet , until far into the movie , utterly unexplained ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But when he ’ s reminded by the team chaplain ( Jeremy Radin ) of the impact that he can have on the players ’ lives he buckles down—as a coach and a person—and , with a combination of sports savvy , shrewd motivational psychology , and tough love , he turns his players thoughtful , disciplined , and confident .
He also transforms them into a winning team—that is , until his own unresolved problems get in the way .
The background to those problems—what Jack knows about himself , what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , what motivates most of his actions—is revealed only in pieces , and that unfurling is timed as spectacularly and as manipulatively as “ Wheel of Fortune ” letters , making the movie a minefield of spoilers .
The director of “ The Way Back , ” Gavin O ’ Connor , doesn ’ t appear to care about basketball—he cares about sports as a metaphor , even as a dramatic device , but not as an experience .
The movie ’ s best scene is the one that sticks closest to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the team : his first coaching session , in which he prompts the assistant coach , Dan Espinosa ( Al Madrigal ) , a math teacher , to describe the players ’ personalities and abilities , one by one , and then takes action in practice to reorganize the team .
But , once O ’ Connor and the screenwriter , Brad Ingelsby , define Jack ’ s coaching bona fides , they then drop the emphasis on process in order to connect sports to character—to show Jack making a difference in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ particular , he concentrates on his star player , Brandon ( Brandon Wilson ) , trying to instill him with self-confidence while also helping him repair his troubled relationship with his father ( T. K. Carter ) , in an effort to spare him the cycle of familial conflict and anger that damaged Jack .
As Jack takes to his role as coach , mentor , and even surrogate father for his players , he ’ s also able to drastically decrease his drinking .
But , eventually , he relapses and—following an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ involves a traffic accident , and veers into what can be called ( with spoiler avoidance ) an accidental home invasion—enters rehab .
This twist of events would have been as likely to get another character—such as a poor person , an immigrant , or a person of color—arrested , deported , even shot .
But when Jack bottoms out his landing is seriously cushioned .
He ends up in a rehab facility reminiscent of a rustic resort , and , though he gets the helpful and respectful treatment that all substance abusers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there ’ s anything exceptional , surprising , or even noteworthy about it .
Jack ’ s lack of self-awareness—of his identity and of the world he lives in—results from O ’ Connor ’ s over-all directorial strategy , or lack of one .
With “ The Way Back , ” the filmmaker falls into the familiar trap of depicting working-class characters as virtually devoid of discourse or ideas .
Jack ’ s barroom talk is a couple of sour jokes ; his discussions with his family and friends are limited to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ offers no perspective on his construction work or his coaching , let alone the state of the world and his place in it .
He is merely the bearer of his misfortunes , the mentor to his players , and the beneficiary of his sister ’ s and his milieu ’ s generosity and forgiveness .
“ The Way Back ” is a movie that resembles a work of serial TV , constructed episodically , as if for Quibi , in act-bites of a few minutes each , with each drop of information @ @ @ @ @ @ @ instantly back to the next actlet .
With its jolts of affecting disclosures , it ’ s a melodrama that doesn ’ t want to be one , made with such a fear of the ridiculous ( the edge of the ridiculous being the stock in trade of melodrama ) that O ’ Connor leaves its emotional expression submerged ; the movie ’ s air of melancholy reserve comes as much from what it hides as from what it shows .
Strangely , “ The Way Back ” isn ’ t the only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wide release this week .
When it comes to stick figures with many misfortunes and little discourse , Jack is virtually Shakespearean compared with the ciphers , presented by the director Ken Loach and the screenwriter Paul Laverty , in the new film “ Sorry We Missed You , ” which opened on Wednesday .
It ’ s a drama about the agonies inflicted by the gig economy on one family in northeastern England , the Turners .
Ricky ( Kris Hitchen ) , who has worked in construction and landscaping , gives @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a delivery driver for a firm where he has no salary or hourly wage but is paid per package and per delivery .
He has to invest in a van—and , to do so , he persuades his wife , Abbie ( Debbie Honeywood ) , to sell her car .
She ’ s a home health aide , deeply devoted to the patients in her care , and she , too , is only paid per visit .
Now she ’ s relegated to taking the bus , shortening the time she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lengthening the time of her commute .
Suddenly , both Abbie and Ricky are away from home for unusually long times , and can ’ t adequately supervise their children—the teen-age Seb ( Rhys Stone ) and the primary-school student Liza Jane ( Katie Proctor ) .

An element of stifled pain in Ben Affleck’s gaze dominates the drama of “The Way Back,” which opens Friday, and nearly renders the film’s absurdities and shortcuts moving and coherent. It’s a redemption-through-sports movie that doesn’t offer enough about sports or redemption, a coping-through-grief tale that, far from confronting the anguish on which it’s based, treats it only as one piece in a narrative jigsaw puzzle.
Affleck plays Jack Cunningham, a construction worker living alone in the small coastal California town of San Pedro. He goes to work, drives to a bar called Harold’s Place, and drinks alone—until, inexplicably late in the movie, it’s revealed that he actually knows more or less everyone in the place and engages them in sloshy bar talk. He then goes home, to an apartment up a flight of rickety steps, and drinks some more. He has a cell phone but doesn’t carry it—he leaves it at home, using it only as an answering machine, the better to ignore the friends and family members who call to check up on him. Jack arrives drunk at the house of his sister (Michaela Watkins) and her family on Thanksgiving, and continues drinking throughout the meal; he bristles when she mentions Angela (Janina Gavankar), his wife, from whom he’s separated, and he reacts aggressively when she confides in him that a mutual friend is worried about his drinking.
Drinking en route to his job, and drinking from a metal cannister on the job, Jack is clearly heading for disaster. But, one day, he comes home to an odd phone message, one that he chooses to respond to: he’s summoned to the office of Father Edward Devine (John Aylward), an elderly priest who’s also the headmaster of Bishop Hayes, the Catholic school from which Jack graduated, in 1995. Jack was, it turns out, a basketball star who led the team to a championship; now Father Devine asks him to step in, immediately, as the coach of the boys’ team. (The former coach suffered a heart attack.) At home that night, Jack kills a dozen or more cans of beer while crafting the phrasing of his refusal—but then agrees to take the job.
The team that Jack inherits is terrible and demoralized; the players achieve little and don’t take their playing, training, or team discipline very seriously. At first, Jack’s own casual attitude—and his pent-up rage, and his long-suppressed (yet, until far into the movie, utterly unexplained) pain—get in the way of his responsibilities. But when he’s reminded by the team chaplain (Jeremy Radin) of the impact that he can have on the players’ lives he buckles down—as a coach and a person—and, with a combination of sports savvy, shrewd motivational psychology, and tough love, he turns his players thoughtful, disciplined, and confident. He also transforms them into a winning team—that is, until his own unresolved problems get in the way. The background to those problems—what Jack knows about himself, what he thinks about more or less constantly, what motivates most of his actions—is revealed only in pieces, and that unfurling is timed as spectacularly and as manipulatively as “Wheel of Fortune” letters, making the movie a minefield of spoilers.
The director of “The Way Back,” Gavin O’Connor, doesn’t appear to care about basketball—he cares about sports as a metaphor, even as a dramatic device, but not as an experience. The movie’s best scene is the one that sticks closest to the actual subject of Jack’s work with the team: his first coaching session, in which he prompts the assistant coach, Dan Espinosa (Al Madrigal), a math teacher, to describe the players’ personalities and abilities, one by one, and then takes action in practice to reorganize the team. But, once O’Connor and the screenwriter, Brad Ingelsby, define Jack’s coaching bona fides, they then drop the emphasis on process in order to connect sports to character—to show Jack making a difference in the lives of his players. In particular, he concentrates on his star player, Brandon (Brandon Wilson), trying to instill him with self-confidence while also helping him repair his troubled relationship with his father (T. K. Carter), in an effort to spare him the cycle of familial conflict and anger that damaged Jack.
As Jack takes to his role as coach, mentor, and even surrogate father for his players, he’s also able to drastically decrease his drinking. But, eventually, he relapses and—following an incident that begins with drunk driving, involves a traffic accident, and veers into what can be called (with spoiler avoidance) an accidental home invasion—enters rehab.
This twist of events would have been as likely to get another character—such as a poor person, an immigrant, or a person of color—arrested, deported, even shot. But when Jack bottoms out his landing is seriously cushioned. He ends up in a rehab facility reminiscent of a rustic resort, and, though he gets the helpful and respectful treatment that all substance abusers deserve, Jack—and the filmmakers—seem unaware that there’s anything exceptional, surprising, or even noteworthy about it.
Jack’s lack of self-awareness—of his identity and of the world he lives in—results from O’Connor’s over-all directorial strategy, or lack of one. With “The Way Back,” the filmmaker falls into the familiar trap of depicting working-class characters as virtually devoid of discourse or ideas. Jack’s barroom talk is a couple of sour jokes; his discussions with his family and friends are limited to the strictest dictates of the plot. Jack offers no perspective on his construction work or his coaching, let alone the state of the world and his place in it. He is merely the bearer of his misfortunes, the mentor to his players, and the beneficiary of his sister’s and his milieu’s generosity and forgiveness. “The Way Back” is a movie that resembles a work of serial TV, constructed episodically, as if for Quibi, in act-bites of a few minutes each, with each drop of information delivering a dramatic climax and then leading instantly back to the next actlet. With its jolts of affecting disclosures, it’s a melodrama that doesn’t want to be one, made with such a fear of the ridiculous (the edge of the ridiculous being the stock in trade of melodrama) that O’Connor leaves its emotional expression submerged; the movie’s air of melancholy reserve comes as much from what it hides as from what it shows.
Strangely, “The Way Back” isn’t the only oblivious depiction of working people which gets wide release this week. When it comes to stick figures with many misfortunes and little discourse, Jack is virtually Shakespearean compared with the ciphers, presented by the director Ken Loach and the screenwriter Paul Laverty, in the new film “Sorry We Missed You,” which opened on Wednesday. It’s a drama about the agonies inflicted by the gig economy on one family in northeastern England, the Turners.
In “Sorry We Missed You,” which stars Kris Hitchen and Katie Proctor, the mutual dependencies of family life are stressed to the breaking point. Photograph Courtesy Zeitgeist
Ricky (Kris Hitchen), who has worked in construction and landscaping, gives up that work in order to become a delivery driver for a firm where he has no salary or hourly wage but is paid per package and per delivery. He has to invest in a van—and, to do so, he persuades his wife, Abbie (Debbie Honeywood), to sell her car. She’s a home health aide, deeply devoted to the patients in her care, and she, too, is only paid per visit. Now she’s relegated to taking the bus, shortening the time she can spend on each visit and greatly lengthening the time of her commute. Suddenly, both Abbie and Ricky are away from home for unusually long times, and can’t adequately supervise their children—the teen-age Seb (Rhys Stone) and the primary-school student Liza Jane (Katie Proctor).
The dramatic principle of “Sorry We Missed You” is Murphy’s Law. Warned in advance by his hard-nosed and boastful boss (Ross Brewster) of a variety of fines and penalties for which he risks becoming liable, Ricky finds himself subject to seemingly all of them. When customers refuse to sign for deliveries, or packages are mislabelled, when Ricky’s van is damaged while he’s not in it, when a police officer orders him away from the site of a delivery, when a dog nearly takes a piece out of him, when he’s assaulted and robbed—every difficulty leads to either an out-of-pocket expense or a fine from the delivery firm. Meanwhile, Seb, a talented artist whose preferred medium is graffiti, starts getting into trouble, and Liza Jane, who’s feeling abandoned, starts acting out; with each difficulty faced by Abbie’s patients and each late night or early morning or weekend assignment required of Ricky, the mutual dependencies of family life are stressed to the breaking point.
Loach’s empathy for the Turners, and, in particular, for Ricky, to whom the movie sticks most closely, is more than evident—it’s flagrant and artificial. Loach makes viewers feel virtuous about feeling bad, and few viewers are likely to be immune to the concern that he arouses. Yet he does so by removing the complex humanity from the working-class characters he seeks to exalt. Even more than O’Connor in “The Way Back,” Loach stands loftily above his protagonists and presents them to the audience like he’s their impresario, representative, and spokesperson, carefully filtering their personalities and suppressing their voices so stringently as to leave no substance. Ricky and Abbie have no politics, no amusements, no friends, no talk of wider acquaintances, little to say about the world they live in or the people they know. Brexit? They don’t say. Their neighborhood? It may as well be a green-screen backdrop. Where “The Way Back” turns each revelation into a muted spectacle, “Sorry We Missed You” treats its story as revelation, as the unvarnished and unimpeachable truth, the gospel truth. The faux modesty of Loach’s styleless style has the arrogance of a self-nomination for sainthood.


newyorker--2020-03-06--The Innocuous and Familiar Story of Bernie Sanders’s Trip to Russia

On Thursday night , the Times published an article titled “ As Bernie Sanders Pushed for Closer Ties , Soviet Union Spotted Opportunity.
” The subtitle : “ Previously unseen documents from a Soviet archive show how hard Mr. Sanders worked to find a sister city in Russia when he was a mayor in the 1980s .
Moscow saw a chance for propaganda.
” ( Seven paragraphs in , the paper clarifies that the documents , publicly available from a regional archive in Russia , were “ previously unseen ” insofar as no one had previously requested to look at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ headline and the subhead promise disquieting news .
In fact , the story that unfolds is innocuous and familiar .
In 1988 , Sanders , then the mayor of Burlington , Vermont , worked to forge a sister-city relationship with Yaroslavl , a historic Russian city a few hours northeast of Moscow .
In doing so , according to the Times , Sanders unwittingly played into the hands of Soviet authorities , who exploited his “ antiwar agenda for their own propaganda purposes.
” The reporter , Anton Troianovski , described the search @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a train , visiting the archive , and physically paging through catalogues until he found a reference to the Burlington files .
( Alternatively , he could have logged on to the Web site of Yaroslavl ’ s regional archives and tried typing “ Берлингтон ” — “ Burlington ” —or “ дружественный ” — “ friendly ” —into the search field , and he would have located the call numbers for the folder containing the documents from 1988 . )
The exhibits include Jane and Bernie Sanders ’ s hotel-registration card ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in English , affirming his enthusiasm for the visit and the sister-city relationship ; a page-long , seven-point agenda for the October , 1988 , reciprocal visit of Yaroslavl city officials to Burlington ; and a page of standard instructions for Soviet functionaries speaking to foreigners , reminding them to use every opportunity to reiterate the Soviets ’ desires for peace and for the success of nuclear negotiations , then underway in Geneva .
These are very boring documents .
If anything is noteworthy , it is the last point of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ during the visit , members of the delegation [ on the Soviet side ] are prepared to answer any questions about Soviet domestic and foreign policies.
” This was indeed the spirit of the time : the Soviet Union was opening up .
President Ronald Reagan visited Moscow around the same time that the Sanderses travelled to Yaroslavl .
But the Times casts the agenda and the instructions as somehow sinister .
The agenda is titled “ A Plan for Informational and Propaganda Work ” —but in Soviet political language , “ propaganda @ @ @ @ @ @ @ point of view .
The article contains no quotes from historians or Sovietologists who might have placed the documents and visit in context .
One such historian , David Brandenberger , a professor at the University of Richmond in Virginia , posted on Facebook , “ Anyone who knows anything about research in the former Soviet archives would recognize the official reception of Sanders in Yaroslavl in 1988 and subsequent contacts as routine and pure officialese .
To call this ‘ propaganda ’ is an insult to Cold War propagandists.
” Brandenberger , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ propaganda , explained to me , over Facebook Messenger , that “ propaganda differs from persuasion and other forms of communication in the sense that it publicly promotes a pre-prepared , legible , monological position on a particular issue.
” He wrote , “ Propagandists do not engage in spontaneous dialogue or a conversational exchange—they advance an articulate , well-planned official line in a relentless , uncompromising way .
In the case of these 1988 documents , the routine recommendation that some middling party boss talk up the cause of world peace and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ propaganda.
” A more accurate way to describe the documents , Brandenberger said , would be to call them “ a recommendation about how to engage Sanders on a topic of mutual interest.
” He continued , “ I ’ ve not seen the entire document , but the pages reproduced in the Times describe the U.S.S.R. ’ s official position on disarmament and then recommend talking points to bring up in engagements with foreigners like Sanders .
The document refers to this activity as ‘ propaganda , ’ but the actions described @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cooperation than some sort of dogmatic messaging.
” The late nineteen-eighties were a time of relationship-building .
Quoting the Sanders campaign , the Times story notes that dozens of American cities forged relationships with Soviet cities , with the encouragement of President Reagan .
A few months before Sanders travelled to Yaroslavl , I got to glimpse one such relationship , when my English teacher from the Soviet Union came to the United States .
His name was David Bell , and he was born in 1921 , in Texas , where his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
When he was ten , his father moved the family to the Soviet Union .
Bell ’ s parents , later deemed untrustworthy by Soviet authorities , perished in internal exile .
Bell worked as an English teacher in Dubna , a small town about eighty miles north of Moscow .
When I was twelve , my grandmother , who lived in Dubna , arranged for me to take private lessons with Bell .
I studied with him for two summers .
He played Elvis Presley and Pete Seeger for me , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which I would have had no other opportunity to hear .
I don ’ t know how he got the tapes , because he was not allowed to return to America until late 1987 .
By then I was twenty and living in the U.S .
I picked Bell up at the airport , and he immediately told me that he was going to travel to La Crosse , Wisconsin : he had been corresponding with some anti-nuclear activists there , and there was talk of creating a La Crosse–Dubna sister-city relationship .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ s life , until his death in 2006 , were devoted to organizing visits , concerts , talks , and whatever else went into the sister-city relationship .
At the end of 1988 , thirty U.S. high schools ( in nineteen states , of which Vermont was not one ) and an equal number of Soviet high schools announced the beginning of the first Soviet-American exchange program .
Any number of efforts in what was known as citizen diplomacy—a term coined earlier in the decade—sprouted at the same time .
This was politics @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in conversation , engaged in learning about one another , with the express purpose of forging better ways of living together on the planet .
For the Times to frame those efforts as propaganda is , arguably , to engage in propaganda , and to devalue the human essence of politics .
Regarding his 1988 visit to Yaroslavl , Sanders made some observant remarks , as when he noted how self-critical his Soviet interlocutors had been , and some ill-advised remarks , as when he said that he “ didn ’ t notice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ only the latter category of remarks .
But , as I wrote in February , at the time Sanders was the mayor of a small American city ; he was representing himself and his local constituents , who were not wronged by his naïveté .
Now he is a viable contender for the Democratic nomination , and the Times , by misrepresenting the context and the impact of his long-ago actions , risks more harm to American politics than Sanders ’ s credulousness ever could .

On Thursday night, the Times published an article titled “As Bernie Sanders Pushed for Closer Ties, Soviet Union Spotted Opportunity.” The subtitle: “Previously unseen documents from a Soviet archive show how hard Mr. Sanders worked to find a sister city in Russia when he was a mayor in the 1980s. Moscow saw a chance for propaganda.” (Seven paragraphs in, the paper clarifies that the documents, publicly available from a regional archive in Russia, were “previously unseen” insofar as no one had previously requested to look at them.)
The language of the headline and the subhead promise disquieting news. In fact, the story that unfolds is innocuous and familiar. In 1988, Sanders, then the mayor of Burlington, Vermont, worked to forge a sister-city relationship with Yaroslavl, a historic Russian city a few hours northeast of Moscow. In doing so, according to the Times, Sanders unwittingly played into the hands of Soviet authorities, who exploited his “antiwar agenda for their own propaganda purposes.” The reporter, Anton Troianovski, described the search for the documents, which involved taking a train, visiting the archive, and physically paging through catalogues until he found a reference to the Burlington files. (Alternatively, he could have logged on to the Web site of Yaroslavl’s regional archives and tried typing “Берлингтон”—“Burlington”—or “дружественный”—“friendly”—into the search field, and he would have located the call numbers for the folder containing the documents from 1988.)
The exhibits include Jane and Bernie Sanders’s hotel-registration card; a letter and a telegram from Sanders, in English, affirming his enthusiasm for the visit and the sister-city relationship; a page-long, seven-point agenda for the October, 1988, reciprocal visit of Yaroslavl city officials to Burlington; and a page of standard instructions for Soviet functionaries speaking to foreigners, reminding them to use every opportunity to reiterate the Soviets’ desires for peace and for the success of nuclear negotiations, then underway in Geneva.
These are very boring documents. If anything is noteworthy, it is the last point of the proposed agenda: “At any time during the visit, members of the delegation [on the Soviet side] are prepared to answer any questions about Soviet domestic and foreign policies.” This was indeed the spirit of the time: the Soviet Union was opening up. President Ronald Reagan visited Moscow around the same time that the Sanderses travelled to Yaroslavl. But the Times casts the agenda and the instructions as somehow sinister. The agenda is titled “A Plan for Informational and Propaganda Work”—but in Soviet political language, “propaganda” described any effort to promote a point of view. The article contains no quotes from historians or Sovietologists who might have placed the documents and visit in context. One such historian, David Brandenberger, a professor at the University of Richmond in Virginia, posted on Facebook, “Anyone who knows anything about research in the former Soviet archives would recognize the official reception of Sanders in Yaroslavl in 1988 and subsequent contacts as routine and pure officialese. To call this ‘propaganda’ is an insult to Cold War propagandists.”
Brandenberger, who has written two books on Soviet propaganda, explained to me, over Facebook Messenger, that “propaganda differs from persuasion and other forms of communication in the sense that it publicly promotes a pre-prepared, legible, monological position on a particular issue.” He wrote, “Propagandists do not engage in spontaneous dialogue or a conversational exchange—they advance an articulate, well-planned official line in a relentless, uncompromising way. In the case of these 1988 documents, the routine recommendation that some middling party boss talk up the cause of world peace and disarmament with Sanders doesn’t equal propaganda.”
President Ronald Reagan visited Mikhail Gorbachev, in Moscow, in 1988, a time when the Soviet Union was opening up. Photograph from Shutterstock
A more accurate way to describe the documents, Brandenberger said, would be to call them “a recommendation about how to engage Sanders on a topic of mutual interest.” He continued, “I’ve not seen the entire document, but the pages reproduced in the Times describe the U.S.S.R.’s official position on disarmament and then recommend talking points to bring up in engagements with foreigners like Sanders. The document refers to this activity as ‘propaganda,’ but the actions described are a lot closer to relationship-building and cooperation than some sort of dogmatic messaging.”
The late nineteen-eighties were a time of relationship-building. Quoting the Sanders campaign, the Times story notes that dozens of American cities forged relationships with Soviet cities, with the encouragement of President Reagan. A few months before Sanders travelled to Yaroslavl, I got to glimpse one such relationship, when my English teacher from the Soviet Union came to the United States. His name was David Bell, and he was born in 1921, in Texas, where his Ukrainian parents had fled to escape pogroms. When he was ten, his father moved the family to the Soviet Union. Bell’s parents, later deemed untrustworthy by Soviet authorities, perished in internal exile. Bell worked as an English teacher in Dubna, a small town about eighty miles north of Moscow. When I was twelve, my grandmother, who lived in Dubna, arranged for me to take private lessons with Bell. I studied with him for two summers. He played Elvis Presley and Pete Seeger for me, to help me learn American English, which I would have had no other opportunity to hear. I don’t know how he got the tapes, because he was not allowed to return to America until late 1987. By then I was twenty and living in the U.S. I picked Bell up at the airport, and he immediately told me that he was going to travel to La Crosse, Wisconsin: he had been corresponding with some anti-nuclear activists there, and there was talk of creating a La Crosse–Dubna sister-city relationship. The next nineteen years of Bell’s life, until his death in 2006, were devoted to organizing visits, concerts, talks, and whatever else went into the sister-city relationship.
At the end of 1988, thirty U.S. high schools (in nineteen states, of which Vermont was not one) and an equal number of Soviet high schools announced the beginning of the first Soviet-American exchange program. Any number of efforts in what was known as citizen diplomacy—a term coined earlier in the decade—sprouted at the same time. This was politics as politics ought to be: people in conversation, engaged in learning about one another, with the express purpose of forging better ways of living together on the planet. For the Times to frame those efforts as propaganda is, arguably, to engage in propaganda, and to devalue the human essence of politics.
Regarding his 1988 visit to Yaroslavl, Sanders made some observant remarks, as when he noted how self-critical his Soviet interlocutors had been, and some ill-advised remarks, as when he said that he “didn’t notice much deprivation.” The Times story quotes only the latter category of remarks. But, as I wrote in February, at the time Sanders was the mayor of a small American city; he was representing himself and his local constituents, who were not wronged by his naïveté. Now he is a viable contender for the Democratic nomination, and the Times, by misrepresenting the context and the impact of his long-ago actions, risks more harm to American politics than Sanders’s credulousness ever could.


newyorker--2020-03-06--William Gibson on the End of the Future, and a Democratic Party Divided

Just over a week ago , Bernie Sanders appeared to be the front-runner for the Democratic nomination .
Then came some prominent withdrawals from the race , and , on Super Tuesday , the resurgence of Joe Biden ’ s campaign .
David Remnick talks with the political columnist Amy Davidson Sorkin and the historian Michael Kazin about what might happen in the lead-up to the Convention .
Joshua Rothman interviews William Gibson .
The science-fiction writer , often hailed for his prescience , has imagined a future in which our time is the start of the apocalypse .
And @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , producer , and songwriter who works at the nexus of jazz , pop , and hip-hop .
And Then There Were Two After Super Tuesday , the Democratic field is narrowed to two , but the Party ’ s fundamental tension is unresolved .
Will it cripple the Party in the general election ?
William Gibson on the End of the Future The science-fiction writer has a rare ability to discern the future by observing the present closely .
His new novel suggests that “ it ’ s not looking so good.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and producer who helped make the Kendrick Lamar album “ To Pimp a Butterfly .
”

Illustration by Golden Cosmos
Just over a week ago, Bernie Sanders appeared to be the front-runner for the Democratic nomination. Then came some prominent withdrawals from the race, and, on Super Tuesday, the resurgence of Joe Biden’s campaign. David Remnick talks with the political columnist Amy Davidson Sorkin and the historian Michael Kazin about what might happen in the lead-up to the Convention. Joshua Rothman interviews William Gibson. The science-fiction writer, often hailed for his prescience, has imagined a future in which our time is the start of the apocalypse. And Briana Younger visits Thundercat, a bassist, producer, and songwriter who works at the nexus of jazz, pop, and hip-hop.
And Then There Were Two
After Super Tuesday, the Democratic field is narrowed to two, but the Party’s fundamental tension is unresolved. Will it cripple the Party in the general election?
William Gibson on the End of the Future
The science-fiction writer has a rare ability to discern the future by observing the present closely. His new novel suggests that “it’s not looking so good.”
A Visit with Thundercat
Briana Younger talks with the bassist and producer who helped make the Kendrick Lamar album “To Pimp a Butterfly.”


newyorker--2020-03-06--Elizabeth Warren’s Policy Agenda Will Live On

On Thursday , the Tax Policy Center , a nonpartisan research group based in Washington , released a new analysis of Joe Biden ’ s tax plans .
He wants to roll back the Trump-G.O.P .
tax cuts for households earning more than four hundred thousand dollars a year , to subject very high incomes to the Social Security payroll tax , and to raise the top tax rate on corporate income from twenty-one per cent to twenty-eight per cent .
He would also tax capital gains at the same rate as regular income for those making more than a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ step-up in basis ” loophole , which allows rich people to pass stocks and other financial assets down to their heirs without paying tax on the capital gains they have enjoyed .
These aren ’ t the sort of proposals that make the front-page news , but together they would have a substantial impact .
The analysis from the Tax Policy Center says that Biden ’ s plan would raise about four hundred billion dollars a year in new revenue , almost all of which would come from the very well-off .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ per cent—those with incomes of more than eight hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars—would face a tax increase of close to three hundred thousand dollars , on average .
Households in the 0.1 per cent—those earning more than 3.7 million dollars—would see a tax increase of about 1.8 million dollars , on average .
The average tax rate of the one-per-centers would rise from 29.7 per cent to 41.7 per cent , and the 0.1-per-centers would see their average tax rate rise from 30.3 per cent to 46.7 per cent .
A decade ago @ @ @ @ @ @ @ considered radical .
It is a testament to the impact of Senator Elizabeth Warren , who ended her Presidential bid on Thursday , that Biden ’ s proposals have until now received relatively little attention .
Back in January , 2019 , just before Warren officially entered the race , she unveiled a proposal for a new and comprehensive wealth tax .
Stating that , for decades , “ a small group of families have raked in a massive amount of the wealth American workers have produced , while America ’ s middle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Warren campaign proposed a two per cent annual tax on the fortunes of households worth more than fifty million dollars , and three per cent on fortunes of more than a billion dollars .
“ It ’ s time to fundamentally transform our tax code so that we tax the wealth of the ultra-rich , not just their income , ” Warren said .
Economists are still debating the details of Warren ’ s proposal and whether it would raise as much revenue as she claims .
But there can be no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the debate about taxes inside the Democratic Party .
As the campaign progressed , Senator Bernie Sanders , who in 2016 had proposed a different type of wealth tax—a progressive estate tax —unveiled a new proposal that looked like Warren ’ s , but with higher rates on the very largest fortunes .
Other 2020 candidates proposed alternative ways of taxing extreme wealth to raise revenues and tackle chronic inequality .
Biden ’ s plan , which draws on some ideas that the Obama Administration put forward in its second term , when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , is one of these alternatives .
This is just a single example of the Warren campaign ’ s many policy legacies .
She didn ’ t create the resurgence in progressive thinking that we ’ ve witnessed in recent years .
It was a response to underlying developments in the economy—particularly a sharp rise in inequality , a mammoth financial crisis , and even climate change , which is ultimately a market failure , because market transactions fail to account for the social cost of burning carbon .
But , in terms @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been the key synthesizer and champion of a new progressivism .
In fact , she has issued so many policy plans—her campaign Web site lists at least sixty-five of them—that it can be challenging to place her on the liberal-progressive spectrum .
In a recent report , Felicia Wong , the president of the Roosevelt Institute , a liberal think tank , divided today ’ s progressive thinkers and policymakers into four types : “ new structuralists , ” who focus on “ setting guardrails and rules for the market ” ; “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ boosting public services and public investments ; “ economic transformers , ” who focus on “ deploying government to catalyze large scale economic change , ” such as a shift to a green economy ; and “ economic democratists , ” who focus on strengthening democratic institutions to make them better able to manage an economic transformation .
Warren is “ perhaps the paradigmatic new structuralist , ” Wong told me , in an e-mail on Thursday .
The Massachusetts senator has called for breaking up tech giants , such as Facebook and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ separate commercial banking from investment banking ; restricting the private-equity industry ; placing workers on the boards of major corporations ; creating new pro-union laws ; and legally requiring big companies to consider the interests of all of their stakeholders , not just their stockholders .
All of these proposals amount to setting guardrails for how the market economy works and preventing powerful economic interests from abusing their power .
But , to return to Wong ’ s terminology , Warren isn ’ t just a new structuralist .
In advocating for policies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a post-office bank that would offer basic banking services cheaply , she is also a public provider .
In proposing big public investments in green energy and conservation , she is an economic transformer , too .
And in making one of her top priorities a comprehensive anti-corruption plan , which she claims would “ end lobbying as we know it , ” she is an economic democratist .
This comprehensive approach to tackling the failures and shortcomings of the market economy is perhaps the most striking thing about Warren .
Like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ early twentieth centuries , who were responding to the excesses of another Gilded Age , she believes that the economic challenges facing the United States are broad , interlinked , and inseparable from politics .
If you want to fix the economy , Warren argues , you have to use a variety of policy tools , and you also have to fix a political system that has become beholden to what Theodore Roosevelt called “ the malefactors of great wealth.
” Sanders believes these things , too , of course .
Like Warren @ @ @ @ @ @ @ political corruption , rein in monopolists , reform the financial sector , tax the rich , strengthen labor rights , address climate change , and reshape big corporations .
The difference between the two largely comes down to scale .
Warren would invest four hundred and forty-five billion dollars over ten years in constructing affordable housing ; Sanders would spend 1.5 trillion dollars .
The top rate in Warren ’ s wealth tax , which she amended late last year to fund a Medicare for All plan , is six per cent ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wealth tax is eight per cent .
Warren would make companies add workers to their boards ; Sanders would also make them give twenty per cent of their stock to employees .
There is also the issue of ultimate aims .
Sanders calls himself a democratic socialist ; Warren once described herself as “ a capitalist to my bones.
” In an interview with Vox ’ s Ezra Klein , last year , she said , “ I believe in markets .
I believe in the benefits that come from markets , that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ companies , or a company and a person coming together to exchange goods and services—yay !
That ’ s how we build a lot of wealth in this country and a lot of innovation and create a lot of opportunity .
But markets without rules are theft.
” In campaigning over the past fifteen months , Warren laid out a road map for moving toward a rules-based capitalism that would be more equitable , more stable , and more sustainable .
The corporate Democrats ( and corporate Republicans ) who are now cheering @ @ @ @ @ @ @ come to regret it .
If they don ’ t endorse the sort of reforms that Warren advocates , and the U.S. economy continues down the path it has been on for the past few decades , they may well end up having to contend with the leftist ardor of Bernie Sanders or a right-wing populism that is even more virulent than the one embodied by the current occupant of the White House .

On Thursday, the Tax Policy Center, a nonpartisan research group based in Washington, released a new analysis of Joe Biden’s tax plans. He wants to roll back the Trump-G.O.P. tax cuts for households earning more than four hundred thousand dollars a year, to subject very high incomes to the Social Security payroll tax, and to raise the top tax rate on corporate income from twenty-one per cent to twenty-eight per cent. He would also tax capital gains at the same rate as regular income for those making more than a million dollars and eliminate the notorious “step-up in basis” loophole, which allows rich people to pass stocks and other financial assets down to their heirs without paying tax on the capital gains they have enjoyed.
These aren’t the sort of proposals that make the front-page news, but together they would have a substantial impact. The analysis from the Tax Policy Center says that Biden’s plan would raise about four hundred billion dollars a year in new revenue, almost all of which would come from the very well-off. In 2021, households in the top one per cent—those with incomes of more than eight hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars—would face a tax increase of close to three hundred thousand dollars, on average. Households in the 0.1 per cent—those earning more than 3.7 million dollars—would see a tax increase of about 1.8 million dollars, on average. The average tax rate of the one-per-centers would rise from 29.7 per cent to 41.7 per cent, and the 0.1-per-centers would see their average tax rate rise from 30.3 per cent to 46.7 per cent.
A decade ago, proposals like these might have been considered radical. It is a testament to the impact of Senator Elizabeth Warren, who ended her Presidential bid on Thursday, that Biden’s proposals have until now received relatively little attention. Back in January, 2019, just before Warren officially entered the race, she unveiled a proposal for a new and comprehensive wealth tax. Stating that, for decades, “a small group of families have raked in a massive amount of the wealth American workers have produced, while America’s middle class has been hollowed out,” the Warren campaign proposed a two per cent annual tax on the fortunes of households worth more than fifty million dollars, and three per cent on fortunes of more than a billion dollars. “It’s time to fundamentally transform our tax code so that we tax the wealth of the ultra-rich, not just their income,” Warren said.
Economists are still debating the details of Warren’s proposal and whether it would raise as much revenue as she claims. But there can be no doubt that it changed the terms of the debate about taxes inside the Democratic Party. As the campaign progressed, Senator Bernie Sanders, who in 2016 had proposed a different type of wealth tax—a progressive estate tax —unveiled a new proposal that looked like Warren’s, but with higher rates on the very largest fortunes. Other 2020 candidates proposed alternative ways of taxing extreme wealth to raise revenues and tackle chronic inequality. Biden’s plan, which draws on some ideas that the Obama Administration put forward in its second term, when the Republicans controlled the House of Representatives, is one of these alternatives.
This is just a single example of the Warren campaign’s many policy legacies. She didn’t create the resurgence in progressive thinking that we’ve witnessed in recent years. It was a response to underlying developments in the economy—particularly a sharp rise in inequality, a mammoth financial crisis, and even climate change, which is ultimately a market failure, because market transactions fail to account for the social cost of burning carbon. But, in terms of national politics, Warren has arguably been the key synthesizer and champion of a new progressivism.
In fact, she has issued so many policy plans—her campaign Web site lists at least sixty-five of them—that it can be challenging to place her on the liberal-progressive spectrum. In a recent report, Felicia Wong, the president of the Roosevelt Institute, a liberal think tank, divided today’s progressive thinkers and policymakers into four types: “new structuralists,” who focus on “setting guardrails and rules for the market”; “public providers,” who focus on boosting public services and public investments; “economic transformers,” who focus on “deploying government to catalyze large scale economic change,” such as a shift to a green economy; and “economic democratists,” who focus on strengthening democratic institutions to make them better able to manage an economic transformation.
Warren is “perhaps the paradigmatic new structuralist,” Wong told me, in an e-mail on Thursday. The Massachusetts senator has called for breaking up tech giants, such as Facebook and Amazon; reviving the Glass-Steagall Act to separate commercial banking from investment banking; restricting the private-equity industry; placing workers on the boards of major corporations; creating new pro-union laws; and legally requiring big companies to consider the interests of all of their stakeholders, not just their stockholders.
All of these proposals amount to setting guardrails for how the market economy works and preventing powerful economic interests from abusing their power. But, to return to Wong’s terminology, Warren isn’t just a new structuralist. In advocating for policies like universal child care and the establishment of a post-office bank that would offer basic banking services cheaply, she is also a public provider. In proposing big public investments in green energy and conservation, she is an economic transformer, too. And in making one of her top priorities a comprehensive anti-corruption plan, which she claims would “end lobbying as we know it,” she is an economic democratist.
This comprehensive approach to tackling the failures and shortcomings of the market economy is perhaps the most striking thing about Warren. Like the progressives of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, who were responding to the excesses of another Gilded Age, she believes that the economic challenges facing the United States are broad, interlinked, and inseparable from politics. If you want to fix the economy, Warren argues, you have to use a variety of policy tools, and you also have to fix a political system that has become beholden to what Theodore Roosevelt called “the malefactors of great wealth.”
Sanders believes these things, too, of course. Like Warren, he has ambitious plans to tackle political corruption, rein in monopolists, reform the financial sector, tax the rich, strengthen labor rights, address climate change, and reshape big corporations. The difference between the two largely comes down to scale. Warren would invest four hundred and forty-five billion dollars over ten years in constructing affordable housing; Sanders would spend 1.5 trillion dollars. The top rate in Warren’s wealth tax, which she amended late last year to fund a Medicare for All plan, is six per cent; the top rate in Sanders’s wealth tax is eight per cent. Warren would make companies add workers to their boards; Sanders would also make them give twenty per cent of their stock to employees.
There is also the issue of ultimate aims. Sanders calls himself a democratic socialist; Warren once described herself as “a capitalist to my bones.” In an interview with Vox’s Ezra Klein, last year, she said, “I believe in markets. I believe in the benefits that come from markets, that two people coming together, or two companies, or a company and a person coming together to exchange goods and services—yay! That’s how we build a lot of wealth in this country and a lot of innovation and create a lot of opportunity. But markets without rules are theft.”
In campaigning over the past fifteen months, Warren laid out a road map for moving toward a rules-based capitalism that would be more equitable, more stable, and more sustainable. The corporate Democrats (and corporate Republicans) who are now cheering the demise of her campaign might eventually come to regret it. If they don’t endorse the sort of reforms that Warren advocates, and the U.S. economy continues down the path it has been on for the past few decades, they may well end up having to contend with the leftist ardor of Bernie Sanders or a right-wing populism that is even more virulent than the one embodied by the current occupant of the White House.