newyorker--2020-07-10--How Two Waves of Coronavirus Cases Swept Through the Texas Panhandle

When Boutsady Muongkhot went to get tested for COVID-19 , he didn ’ t feel sick .
His daughter had told him to do it .
Muongkhot , who is seventy-one , is the youngest of ten children born in a farming village in Laos , and one of two brothers who came to the United States .
He is just over five feet tall—wiry and gregarious—and speaks Laotian , Thai , and French , in addition to English , which he learned in Texas .
His accent lands somewhere in between—part fourth-language hesitancy , part drawl .
By the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where Muongkhot had spent nearly four decades of his life cutting meat , he had retired .
His wife , however , still worked at the Tyson meatpacking plant in Amarillo .
His daughter had warned him about the pandemic .
He had watched the news .
But , for all his concern , Muongkhot had been lax in his home .
“ I know they say on the TV cover your nose , cover your face every time you go out of the house , ” he told me .
“ But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” This was the first wave of the virus in Texas , centered on the meatpacking plants that run north from Amarillo toward Oklahoma .
Each plant , in the early months of the pandemic , represented both a concentrated outbreak and an amplification of the problems that have become familiar across the United States : the confusion of messaging , the conflict between life and commerce , the conspiracy theories and the outright denial .
Unless you were there , on the front lines , in the hospitals or in the hardest-hit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ abstract .
As a result , Muongkhot had found himself in the middle of one of the first big outbreaks in Texas without realizing it .
Amarillo , a city of around two hundred thousand people , sits at the intersection of two counties—Randall and Potter—with most of the immigrant population situated in Potter .
As of July 1st , seventy-seven per cent of the city ’ s thirty-seven hundred cases have come out of Potter .
In Moore County , to the north , the site of another large meatpacking plant , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have contracted the disease—a rate equivalent to the hardest-hit neighborhoods in New York City .
As early as February , Muongkhot ’ s wife had heard rumors .
There were people who had gone home sick , but it might have been the flu .
“ The company keeps running and running , ” Muongkhot said .
“ I didn ’ t think my wife would get the virus and then connect to me .
We were like regular people having a regular time together.
” No one knows when the coronavirus first @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plants .
The first recorded case in Amarillo , on March 18th , had nothing to do with the plants ; it involved someone travelling for a basketball game .
But , by the time Muongkhot went to get tested , in May , local hospitals had been seeing infected workers for weeks .
And the people that were coming in , health-care workers suspected , were just the tip of the iceberg .
Meatpacking plants are perfectly suited to aid the transmission of any virus ( an Amarillo doctor who specializes in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ TB cases every year ) , and COVID-19 spreads more quickly than the flu .
People on the lines work shoulder to shoulder .
The air is kept cold .
It is too noisy to hear someone cough , noisy enough that people regularly shout in one another ’ s faces .
And , in rural towns like Cactus ( which Waylon Jennings described as a “ wide place in the road ” ) , many workers were getting driven back and forth to plants in packed vans .
“ As soon as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we all knew that it was only a matter of time , ” Rodney Young , the chair of the Department of Family and Community Medicine at Texas Tech School of Medicine in Amarillo , told me .
In China , when the pandemic surged in January , meatpacking plants across the country were shut down for weeks .
In Nebraska , an emergency-room doctor sent an e-mail to the regional health department warning about an outbreak at a local JBS plant on March 31st .
Daniela Dwyer , a lawyer with Texas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sector was a concern from the beginning—advocates wrote a letter , dated March 25th , to Mike Pompeo addressing the vulnerability of temporary agricultural workers in particular .
“ I think everybody who works with low-wage workers and workers in agriculture knew that this was going to become an issue , ” she said .
And yet , on April 12th , when an outbreak forced the closure of a Smithfield pork-processing plant in North Dakota , which is responsible for five per cent of U.S. pork production , it took officials and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shuttered a plant in Pennsylvania , on April 7th , and other meatpacking plants were soon shutting down across the nation .
On April 15th , a JBS plant closed in Greeley , Colorado , and another JBS plant closed in Worthington , Minnesota five days later .
By April 22nd , more than a dozen plants had been closed , and at least twenty-two hundred workers , from forty-one plants across the country , were infected .
But the two largest plants in the Panhandle—one owned by JBS , the other by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thousand workers—kept running .
As OSHA and the C.D.C .
scrambled to come up with workplace protocols , the alarm about the outbreak was matched by dire warnings of a breakdown in U.S. food supply chains .
Even as workers grew ill , the U.S. Department of Agriculture was relaxing safety oversight , allowing fifteen poultry plants to exceed guidelines on how many birds workers could process in a minute ( more waivers than had ever before been given in a single month ) .
And then , on April 26th , John @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the New York Times and Washington Post warning that the “ food supply chain is breaking.
” Two days later , Donald Trump announced that meatpacking plants were considered essential businesses .
No matter what , the plants had to stay open .
The rest of the world was distanced , but workers had to keep coming in .
Muongkhot has been in Amarillo for forty years .
His entire life has been subject to the rhythms of work at Tyson .
When he first arrived , he made $ 2.65 an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cutting meat paid more , $ 4.84 an hour .
As time went on , the salary went up until he was making thirteen dollars an hour .
His wife is still cutting , he explained , because she is twenty years younger .
“ I have been married twice , ” Muongkhot said .
“ I went back to Laos to meet her , and I just tell the truth.
” The snow , the plants , and his three children .
“ I don ’ t have no education , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meat , cut meat , cut meat.
” He worked on the production floor .
He worked sharpening knives or managing the freezers .
At first , the people in Amarillo were not welcoming .
He made money and bought a Trans Am .
His neighbors threw eggs and sometimes rocks at his new car .
But more refugees kept coming .
Since a wave of immigration raids , in 2006 , meatpacking plants around the nation have increasingly relied on a workforce of refugees .
They have changed the face of rural @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In the Panhandle , populations of the Karen people from Myanmar rub elbows with refugees from Laos , the Democratic Republic of Congo , and Somalia .
Altogether , more than twenty different languages are spoken at the plants and in the community .
Meatpacking plants are famous for their difficult working conditions—long days standing close together wielding saws and knives—and it is hard to keep enough staff on the line to both turn out thousands of cows each day and maintain the low price of beef in the United States .
Plants @ @ @ @ @ @ @ world of agricultural labor , relatively high .
No English is required , and the plants offer English classes and health benefits .
Most of them are unionized .
According to Muongkhot , younger workers typically use the plants as a stepping stone , a place to improve their English and move on .
But , as the number of refugees coming into the United States has dropped , so has the pool of available laborers .
“ You have a lot of overtime , ” Ryan Pennington , a linguist and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Amarillo , said .
“ They are constantly desperate to get more people in there .
”

When Boutsady Muongkhot went to get tested for COVID-19, he didn’t feel sick. His daughter had told him to do it. Muongkhot, who is seventy-one, is the youngest of ten children born in a farming village in Laos, and one of two brothers who came to the United States. He is just over five feet tall—wiry and gregarious—and speaks Laotian, Thai, and French, in addition to English, which he learned in Texas. His accent lands somewhere in between—part fourth-language hesitancy, part drawl. By the time COVID-19 reached the Texas Panhandle, where Muongkhot had spent nearly four decades of his life cutting meat, he had retired. His wife, however, still worked at the Tyson meatpacking plant in Amarillo. His daughter had warned him about the pandemic. He had watched the news. But, for all his concern, Muongkhot had been lax in his home. “I know they say on the TV cover your nose, cover your face every time you go out of the house,” he told me. “But I forgot to think about my wife.”
This was the first wave of the virus in Texas, centered on the meatpacking plants that run north from Amarillo toward Oklahoma. Each plant, in the early months of the pandemic, represented both a concentrated outbreak and an amplification of the problems that have become familiar across the United States: the confusion of messaging, the conflict between life and commerce, the conspiracy theories and the outright denial. Unless you were there, on the front lines, in the hospitals or in the hardest-hit communities, it all seemed invisible and abstract.
As a result, Muongkhot had found himself in the middle of one of the first big outbreaks in Texas without realizing it. Amarillo, a city of around two hundred thousand people, sits at the intersection of two counties—Randall and Potter—with most of the immigrant population situated in Potter. As of July 1st, seventy-seven per cent of the city’s thirty-seven hundred cases have come out of Potter. In Moore County, to the north, the site of another large meatpacking plant, at least one in every twenty-five people have contracted the disease—a rate equivalent to the hardest-hit neighborhoods in New York City. As early as February, Muongkhot’s wife had heard rumors. There were people who had gone home sick, but it might have been the flu. “The company keeps running and running,” Muongkhot said. “I didn’t think my wife would get the virus and then connect to me. We were like regular people having a regular time together.”
No one knows when the coronavirus first arrived in the Panhandle’s meatpacking plants. The first recorded case in Amarillo, on March 18th, had nothing to do with the plants; it involved someone travelling for a basketball game. But, by the time Muongkhot went to get tested, in May, local hospitals had been seeing infected workers for weeks. And the people that were coming in, health-care workers suspected, were just the tip of the iceberg. Meatpacking plants are perfectly suited to aid the transmission of any virus (an Amarillo doctor who specializes in tuberculosis said that he sees about fifteen TB cases every year), and COVID-19 spreads more quickly than the flu. People on the lines work shoulder to shoulder. The air is kept cold. It is too noisy to hear someone cough, noisy enough that people regularly shout in one another’s faces. And, in rural towns like Cactus (which Waylon Jennings described as a “wide place in the road”), many workers were getting driven back and forth to plants in packed vans.
“As soon as they were talking about the pandemic, we all knew that it was only a matter of time,” Rodney Young, the chair of the Department of Family and Community Medicine at Texas Tech School of Medicine in Amarillo, told me. In China, when the pandemic surged in January, meatpacking plants across the country were shut down for weeks. In Nebraska, an emergency-room doctor sent an e-mail to the regional health department warning about an outbreak at a local JBS plant on March 31st. Daniela Dwyer, a lawyer with Texas RioGrande Legal Aid, said the agricultural sector was a concern from the beginning—advocates wrote a letter, dated March 25th, to Mike Pompeo addressing the vulnerability of temporary agricultural workers in particular. “I think everybody who works with low-wage workers and workers in agriculture knew that this was going to become an issue,” she said.
And yet, on April 12th, when an outbreak forced the closure of a Smithfield pork-processing plant in South Dakota, which is responsible for five per cent of U.S. pork production, it took officials and workers by surprise. Cargill had already shuttered a plant in Pennsylvania, on April 7th, and other meatpacking plants were soon shutting down across the nation. On April 15th, a JBS plant closed in Greeley, Colorado, and another JBS plant closed in Worthington, Minnesota five days later. By April 22nd, more than a dozen plants had been closed, and at least twenty-two hundred workers, from forty-one plants across the country, were infected. But the two largest plants in the Panhandle—one owned by JBS, the other by Tyson, which together employ about seven thousand workers—kept running.
As OSHA and the C.D.C. scrambled to come up with workplace protocols, the alarm about the outbreak was matched by dire warnings of a breakdown in U.S. food supply chains. Even as workers grew ill, the U.S. Department of Agriculture was relaxing safety oversight, allowing fifteen poultry plants to exceed guidelines on how many birds workers could process in a minute (more waivers than had ever before been given in a single month). And then, on April 26th, John H. Tyson took out full page ads in the New York Times and Washington Post warning that the “food supply chain is breaking.” Two days later, Donald Trump announced that meatpacking plants were considered essential businesses. No matter what, the plants had to stay open. The rest of the world was distanced, but workers had to keep coming in.
Muongkhot has been in Amarillo for forty years. His entire life has been subject to the rhythms of work at Tyson. When he first arrived, he made $2.65 an hour fixing car speakers; he found cutting meat paid more, $4.84 an hour. As time went on, the salary went up until he was making thirteen dollars an hour. His wife is still cutting, he explained, because she is twenty years younger. “I have been married twice,” Muongkhot said. “I went back to Laos to meet her, and I just tell the truth.” The snow, the plants, and his three children. “I don’t have no education,” he said. “I just cut meat, cut meat, cut meat.” He worked on the production floor. He worked sharpening knives or managing the freezers. At first, the people in Amarillo were not welcoming. He made money and bought a Trans Am. His neighbors threw eggs and sometimes rocks at his new car. But more refugees kept coming.
Since a wave of immigration raids, in 2006, meatpacking plants around the nation have increasingly relied on a workforce of refugees. They have changed the face of rural America, creating communities within communities. In the Panhandle, populations of the Karen people from Myanmar rub elbows with refugees from Laos, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and Somalia. Altogether, more than twenty different languages are spoken at the plants and in the community. Meatpacking plants are famous for their difficult working conditions—long days standing close together wielding saws and knives—and it is hard to keep enough staff on the line to both turn out thousands of cows each day and maintain the low price of beef in the United States. Plants offer salaries that are, in the world of agricultural labor, relatively high. No English is required, and the plants offer English classes and health benefits. Most of them are unionized. According to Muongkhot, younger workers typically use the plants as a stepping stone, a place to improve their English and move on. But, as the number of refugees coming into the United States has dropped, so has the pool of available laborers. “You have a lot of overtime,” Ryan Pennington, a linguist and the head of the Refugee Language Project in Amarillo, said. “They are constantly desperate to get more people in there.”
So while the rest of the nation struggled to interpret the changing guidelines and increasing cases of COVID-19 (whether to wear a mask or travel for spring break, whether the virus would disappear with the heat), the challenges that meatpacking plants faced were even more complicated. Not only were they essential businesses, they were dangerous; even on good days, they struggled with staffing and communication. Spreading out the lines would mean slowing down production. And meatpacking plants have spent years doing everything they could to keep the line running at speed. “So much of what’s in the media is this tension, right?” Young, the Texas Tech doctor, told me. “ ‘Have we overestimated all of this or is the shutdown worth it?’ These are battlefield decisions.”
Battlefield decisions, however, came late. In mid-April, local health authorities offered testing to the Tyson and JBS plants in Amarillo and Cactus. JBS declined and Tyson agreed. By April 27th, there were at least a hundred and fifty-nine infections tied to one of the JBS plants, and authorities had started investigating. Workers, however, were cobbling together a portrait of the crisis through observation, rumor, and news reports that many could only half understand.
While Trump was reaching the decision to keep the meatpacking plants open, a Somali immigrant named Salad Dualle was watching people get sick in Amarillo. Dualle once worked as a doctor in Somalia and, in Amarillo, worked with medical centers to help with translation. If the meatpacking plants were providing any information, he said, it was not getting through. Posting fliers, even if they were translated, wasn’t enough. Not everyone could read. At the Tyson plant, people were gossiping as early as mid-February that a supervisor had gone on a cruise and come back sick. Workers kept disappearing from the floor. There were rumors that one of the workers had died, but no one knew how. In the Somalian community, people were worried that they would be isolated, fired, or even sent home. “They were afraid of being stigmatized,” Dualle said. “So they would say, ‘Oh, no no, I am having allergies. I am having asthma.’ They were not going in to get tested.” Some said that devout Muslims would be immune to the disease. “Or they would say, ‘Oh, it’s only affecting elderly people,’ ” he said. “But now they are realizing that this disease has no boundaries. It’s going to impact everybody, any village, any color, wealthy people, poor people—they’re all susceptible.”
The governor of Texas, Greg Abbott, has been reluctant to impose statewide safety measures. He issued a stay-at-home order on March 31st, but stopped short of actually calling it a stay-at-home order. (The order was headlined: “relating to the continuity of essential services and activities during the COVID-19 disaster” and required people to “minimize social gatherings and minimize in-person contact.”) A handful of armed vigilantes showed up at tattoo parlors and hair salons, in Texas, claiming to protect their rights to stay open. In April, protesters showed up in Austin and Dallas to voice their opposition to the shutdown. When Greg Abbott announced the state would be reopening on May 1st, he offered a gradual plan. He suggested that Amarillo residents continue to stay home.


newyorker--2020-07-10--“Palm Springs” and “Relic,” Reviewed

“Palm Springs” and “Relic,” Reviewed

Not a day goes by when I don ’ t think about “ Groundhog Day , ” a film in which the same damn day goes by , over and over .
I had a premonition , when Harold Ramis ’ s movie was released , in 1993 , that it might hang around in our bloodstream , and so it has .
What matters about the story ’ s main conceit—of a fellow named Phil ( Bill Murray ) , enchained in a time loop—is not its novelty , or the crystalline logic with which it is worked through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to something permanent in our way of being .
( The very best comedies , now and then , can do this with an ease that makes tragedians go nuts . )
“ Groundhog Day , ” people say , when asked about their job , or the third year of their marriage , or the prospect of infinity in a meaningless void , or the choice of salads at the lunch counter .
We can fight the loop ; we can cave in to it ; we can take the karmic path @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the flow .
Makes no difference .
At bottom , all of us are Phil .
“ Groundhog Day , ” though impeccable , is not inimitable , and copycats have been on the prowl .
There is a tasty irony in settling down to a new movie and , after half an hour , frowning in the dark and saying to yourself , “ Hang on , haven ’ t I been here before ?
” No one has been dumb enough to risk a reboot of Ramis ’ s film—wisely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rip a hole in the space-time continuum .
Instead , the axioms of groundhoggery have been applied to various genres .
Hence “ Edge of Tomorrow ” ( 2014 ) , a war movie in which Tom Cruise keeps getting killed in combat and then waking up the next morning , in flawless fettle .
“ Happy Death Day ” ( 2017 ) ropes the slasher movie into the loop , for the benefit of those cognoscenti who like their slashings on repeat .
The smartest riff is that of “ Source Code @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eight action-packed minutes , rather than twenty-four tiring hours , are frequently rerun , in a bid to foil a crime .
Now we have the boringly titled but keenly spirited “ Palm Springs.
” The director is Max Barbakow , the screenwriter is Andy Siara , and the chronologically challenged hero is Nyles ( Andy Samberg ) , who , at the outset of the tale , is already stuck .
Whatever he does , however he dies , whoever he sleeps with , and regardless of his good deeds or his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ open his eyes , afresh , to a nice identical day in a Palm Springs hotel .
And guess what ?
It ’ s a wedding day .
Nyles isn ’ t the one getting hitched , thank heaven .
He ’ s only there because his girlfriend , the dim and faithless Misty ( Meredith Hagner ) , is a bridesmaid .
But still , what a dazzling vision of the purgatorial : a desert of vast eternity , strewn with so-so canapés , stumblebum speeches , and worse dancing .
Sisyphus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ companion in his plight , a fellow-guest named Roy ( J. K. Simmons ) , who is none too pleased about this accursed state , and who vents his spleen by shooting Nyles with a bow and arrows—to no lasting effect , of course .
Soon , another guest , Sarah ( Cristin Milioti ) , the sister of the bride , is unwittingly sucked into the fray .
( Barbakow makes the mistake of trying to unearth the roots of the loop , offering some woo-woo baloney in a mystical cave .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ leave things unexplained . )
Nyles is there to verse her in the laws of perpetual recurrence .
“ Your best bet is just to learn how to suffer existence , ” he tells her , mutating briefly into Schopenhauer , but the merrier option , as he and Sarah proceed to demonstrate , is consequence-free excess : drinking , driving way too fast , stealing an airplane , and romping around a dive bar in matching denim jackets and red neckerchiefs .
So , do all these shenanigans mark an advance on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ too , veered between the nihilistic and the cavalier , and most of “ Palm Springs , ” I ’ d say , was prefigured in the sight of Bill Murray slowly jamming a slice of cake into his maw , looking at a disgusted Andie MacDowell , and then mouthing , “ What ?
” ( or , to be precise , “ Whahh ?
” ) through a clot of creamy frosting .
Also , his ever-crumpled features told of the taedium vitae that goes with the loop , whereas Andy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of “ Brooklyn Nine-Nine ” will attest—prefers his groundhog neat and quick , without a chaser of hangdog .
What does make this movie stand out is the presence of Cristin Milioti , a paragon of goofiness and grace .
Though wide-eyed , she is far too knowing to be an ingénue .
You may recall her in “ The Wolf of Wall Street ” ( 2013 ) , yelling at Leonardo DiCaprio as he spills out of a limousine in front of Trump Tower , and the yells persist , in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” with Sarah exclaiming , “ What the fuck ?
, ” for want of anything wittier .
She even screams underwater , in a pool .
But gradually , under Milioti ’ s care , the character blooms , not just in resourceful roguery but in pathos ; the happy haze of tears that descends upon her in the dive bar is as sudden and as heart-seizing as the closeup of Ginger Rogers , in “ Shall We Dance ” ( 1937 ) , half crying when Fred Astaire says goodbye with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ grand , but imagine falling time and time again .
Nyles is a lucky guy .
If there were a campaign for the promotion of matrilineal movies—and there ought to be—then “ Relic ” would be in the vanguard .
This forbidding Australian film , directed by Natalie Erika James , tells of three women , each of a different generation .
The oldest is Edna ( Robyn Nevin ) , who is in her eighties , and who lives alone , a fair way from Melbourne , in a secluded house .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kay ( Emily Mortimer ) and Kay ’ s daughter Sam ( Bella Heathcote ) come looking for her .
They move in , consult the police , comb the dripping forest nearby , and wait for Edna to return .
Which she does , without warning ; Kay finds her in the kitchen , wearing a robe and with dirty feet , and greets her with bewilderment and relief .
Edna looks up .
“ Tea ?
” she asks .
“ One sugar , right ?
” It ’ s a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for Edna ’ s casual tone .
“ I suppose I went out , ” she says , as if that settles the issue .
The question of where she went—whether outward , into the woods , like a witch on the lam , or inward , into the secret recesses of her dwelling—remains unresolved .
And you can ’ t help wondering how she got that smarting bruise , as dark as a damson , on her sternum : the first of many insults to the flesh , be warned , that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ film .
In some respects , “ Relic ” is a haunted-house flick of the old school .
Stains migrate across walls ; a window of colored glass , set in the front door , is clouded by black mold ; things truly do go bump in the night .
Even a humble tumble dryer gets to join in , thumping away of its own accord—a godsend , surely , when you have a bunch of laundry to get through , but I guess it adds to the spooking .
On the rare @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they cast but a feeble glow , and I had to smother a guilty laugh when Kay was ordered , in all seriousness , to look under the bed .
Yikes !
That sort of thing has been a joke for almost a century ; in the silent version of “ The Cat and the Canary ” ( 1927 ) , an anxious guest , in a creaky mansion , kneels down to take a similar peek .
There , she finds nothing worse than a simpering chump , though it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an instant , with diabolical fire .

Not a day goes by when I don’t think about “Groundhog Day,” a film in which the same damn day goes by, over and over. I had a premonition, when Harold Ramis’s movie was released, in 1993, that it might hang around in our bloodstream, and so it has. What matters about the story’s main conceit—of a fellow named Phil (Bill Murray), enchained in a time loop—is not its novelty, or the crystalline logic with which it is worked through, but the fact that it answers to something permanent in our way of being. (The very best comedies, now and then, can do this with an ease that makes tragedians go nuts.) “Groundhog Day,” people say, when asked about their job, or the third year of their marriage, or the prospect of infinity in a meaningless void, or the choice of salads at the lunch counter. We can fight the loop; we can cave in to it; we can take the karmic path, pour another beer, and go with the flow. Makes no difference. At bottom, all of us are Phil.
“Groundhog Day,” though impeccable, is not inimitable, and copycats have been on the prowl. There is a tasty irony in settling down to a new movie and, after half an hour, frowning in the dark and saying to yourself, “Hang on, haven’t I been here before?” No one has been dumb enough to risk a reboot of Ramis’s film—wisely so, since the mere attempt would rip a hole in the space-time continuum. Instead, the axioms of groundhoggery have been applied to various genres. Hence “Edge of Tomorrow” (2014), a war movie in which Tom Cruise keeps getting killed in combat and then waking up the next morning, in flawless fettle. “Happy Death Day” (2017) ropes the slasher movie into the loop, for the benefit of those cognoscenti who like their slashings on repeat. The smartest riff is that of “Source Code” (2011), in which eight action-packed minutes, rather than twenty-four tiring hours, are frequently rerun, in a bid to foil a crime.
Now we have the boringly titled but keenly spirited “Palm Springs.” The director is Max Barbakow, the screenwriter is Andy Siara, and the chronologically challenged hero is Nyles (Andy Samberg), who, at the outset of the tale, is already stuck. Whatever he does, however he dies, whoever he sleeps with, and regardless of his good deeds or his gross misconduct, he is doomed to open his eyes, afresh, to a nice identical day in a Palm Springs hotel. And guess what? It’s a wedding day. Nyles isn’t the one getting hitched, thank heaven. He’s only there because his girlfriend, the dim and faithless Misty (Meredith Hagner), is a bridesmaid. But still, what a dazzling vision of the purgatorial: a desert of vast eternity, strewn with so-so canapés, stumblebum speeches, and worse dancing. Sisyphus had it easy.
Nyles has one companion in his plight, a fellow-guest named Roy (J. K. Simmons), who is none too pleased about this accursed state, and who vents his spleen by shooting Nyles with a bow and arrows—to no lasting effect, of course. Soon, another guest, Sarah (Cristin Milioti), the sister of the bride, is unwittingly sucked into the fray. (Barbakow makes the mistake of trying to unearth the roots of the loop, offering some woo-woo baloney in a mystical cave. Ramis’s craftiest coup was to leave things unexplained.) Nyles is there to verse her in the laws of perpetual recurrence. “Your best bet is just to learn how to suffer existence,” he tells her, mutating briefly into Schopenhauer, but the merrier option, as he and Sarah proceed to demonstrate, is consequence-free excess: drinking, driving way too fast, stealing an airplane, and romping around a dive bar in matching denim jackets and red neckerchiefs.
So, do all these shenanigans mark an advance on Phil? Not really; he, too, veered between the nihilistic and the cavalier, and most of “Palm Springs,” I’d say, was prefigured in the sight of Bill Murray slowly jamming a slice of cake into his maw, looking at a disgusted Andie MacDowell, and then mouthing, “What?” (or, to be precise, “Whahh?”) through a clot of creamy frosting. Also, his ever-crumpled features told of the taedium vitae that goes with the loop, whereas Andy Samberg—immensely cheerful company onscreen, as fans of “Brooklyn Nine-Nine” will attest—prefers his groundhog neat and quick, without a chaser of hangdog.
What does make this movie stand out is the presence of Cristin Milioti, a paragon of goofiness and grace. Though wide-eyed, she is far too knowing to be an ingénue. You may recall her in “The Wolf of Wall Street” (2013), yelling at Leonardo DiCaprio as he spills out of a limousine in front of Trump Tower, and the yells persist, in the early scenes of “Palm Springs,” with Sarah exclaiming, “What the fuck?,” for want of anything wittier. She even screams underwater, in a pool. But gradually, under Milioti’s care, the character blooms, not just in resourceful roguery but in pathos; the happy haze of tears that descends upon her in the dive bar is as sudden and as heart-seizing as the closeup of Ginger Rogers, in “Shall We Dance” (1937), half crying when Fred Astaire says goodbye with a song. Falling in love is grand, but imagine falling time and time again. Nyles is a lucky guy.
If there were a campaign for the promotion of matrilineal movies—and there ought to be—then “Relic” would be in the vanguard. This forbidding Australian film, directed by Natalie Erika James, tells of three women, each of a different generation. The oldest is Edna (Robyn Nevin), who is in her eighties, and who lives alone, a fair way from Melbourne, in a secluded house. When she goes missing, her daughter Kay (Emily Mortimer) and Kay’s daughter Sam (Bella Heathcote) come looking for her. They move in, consult the police, comb the dripping forest nearby, and wait for Edna to return. Which she does, without warning; Kay finds her in the kitchen, wearing a robe and with dirty feet, and greets her with bewilderment and relief. Edna looks up. “Tea?” she asks. “One sugar, right?”
It’s a fine moment, all the more troubling for Edna’s casual tone. “I suppose I went out,” she says, as if that settles the issue. The question of where she went—whether outward, into the woods, like a witch on the lam, or inward, into the secret recesses of her dwelling—remains unresolved. And you can’t help wondering how she got that smarting bruise, as dark as a damson, on her sternum: the first of many insults to the flesh, be warned, that are shown in the course of the film.
In some respects, “Relic” is a haunted-house flick of the old school. Stains migrate across walls; a window of colored glass, set in the front door, is clouded by black mold; things truly do go bump in the night. Even a humble tumble dryer gets to join in, thumping away of its own accord—a godsend, surely, when you have a bunch of laundry to get through, but I guess it adds to the spooking. On the rare occasions when lamps are switched on, they cast but a feeble glow, and I had to smother a guilty laugh when Kay was ordered, in all seriousness, to look under the bed. Yikes! That sort of thing has been a joke for almost a century; in the silent version of “The Cat and the Canary”(1927), an anxious guest, in a creaky mansion, kneels down to take a similar peek. There, she finds nothing worse than a simpering chump, though it’s true that his spectacles gleam, for an instant, with diabolical fire.
“Relic” is designed less to freak you out than to worry away at you. More daunting than any evil spectre, visiting from the dead, is the movie’s fear—common to countless families—that living souls will become the ghosts of themselves, and that a person’s memory, be it fond or distressing, may start to rot like a corpse. The dreaded word “dementia” is never mentioned, but you can see it and hear it in Edna’s actions and inactions; she springs at her loved ones in a rage, scrabbles at the soil in order to bury a photograph album, and stands erect and bare, like a statue, as the bath overruns. So long is her ash-gray hair that, when unpinned, it falls halfway down her back and curtains her; we can’t even tell, at one point, which way she is facing.
It’s a hell of a performance by Robyn Nevin, who’s had a long and commanding career on the Australian stage. She was the artistic director of the Sydney Theatre Company; her production of “Hedda Gabler,” starring Cate Blanchett, travelled to BAM in 2006. I actually wanted more of Nevin in “Relic,” because she summons the creative nerve, amid the clamminess and the gloom, to venture a light touch. “House arrest it is, then,” Edna says, when she’s told to stick around where Kay and Sam can keep an eye on her. But what if she sticks too close? Can you peel her off? There are remarkable scenes, late on, in which the house appears to home in upon the women; the rooms grow ever smaller and more boxy, the better to reinforce the terrifying idea of old age as a kind of crawl space. By the end, I didn’t care how much of “Relic” was unfurling in the characters’ heads, and how much was taking place on the premises. I just wanted room to breathe. ♦


newyorker--2020-07-10--How to Draw a Child

How to Draw a Child

The first time I hung out with Emily Flake was shortly after I had assumed the role of cartoon editor of The New Yorker , a daunting title , for many reasons—for one , people feel very strongly about the Cartoon Caption Contest and why they aren ’ t winning it , but also because I was the fourth person to ever hold the title , since 1925 , and the first woman .
Emily and I drank oh so many drinks , and I , eventually , in my cups , started interrogating her about motherhood—because she is the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ specifically about bearing and rearing children in our odd-as-hell habitat , Brooklyn .
Her incredible book , “ Mama Tried , ” taught me far more than I was perhaps prepared to know about the logistics of shooting a kid out of your whatsit , and even more about what it means to go from being an “ adult ” to being a “ parent , ” for those ( I suspect most humans ) who don ’ t feel all that different from their grungy teen selves , despite the passage of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ habits and more comprehensive hygiene .
So when The New Yorker decided to try to make some videos about How to Draw a ____ , it seemed natural to call on Emily to describe how to draw a child .
It appears to be an easy enough task—if you can draw a person , then can ’ t you draw a smaller person with equal ease ?
But , as anyone who has gazed upon Renaissance paintings of a creepy baby Jesus who looks like your great-uncle Carl knows , the answer is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clarity about how to draw your little so-and-so , Junior , I advise that you watch this video .
All apologies to the great-uncle Carls , who going forward will now have far fewer depictions of them up in the Met and in comics , all thanks to this guidance from brilliant Mother Flake .

The first time I hung out with Emily Flake was shortly after I had assumed the role of cartoon editor of The New Yorker, a daunting title, for many reasons—for one, people feel very strongly about the Cartoon Caption Contest and why they aren’t winning it, but also because I was the fourth person to ever hold the title, since 1925, and the first woman. Emily and I drank oh so many drinks, and I, eventually, in my cups, started interrogating her about motherhood—because she is the queen of cartoons about parenting—and even more specifically about bearing and rearing children in our odd-as-hell habitat, Brooklyn. Her incredible book, “Mama Tried,” taught me far more than I was perhaps prepared to know about the logistics of shooting a kid out of your whatsit, and even more about what it means to go from being an “adult” to being a “parent,” for those (I suspect most humans) who don’t feel all that different from their grungy teen selves, despite the passage of time and the development of better partying habits and more comprehensive hygiene.
So when The New Yorker decided to try to make some videos about How to Draw a ____, it seemed natural to call on Emily to describe how to draw a child. It appears to be an easy enough task—if you can draw a person, then can’t you draw a smaller person with equal ease? But, as anyone who has gazed upon Renaissance paintings of a creepy baby Jesus who looks like your great-uncle Carl knows, the answer is: duh, no. For more clarity about how to draw your little so-and-so, Junior, I advise that you watch this video. All apologies to the great-uncle Carls, who going forward will now have far fewer depictions of them up in the Met and in comics, all thanks to this guidance from brilliant Mother Flake.


newyorker--2020-07-10--Goldbelly Ships Iconic Restaurant Food to Your Home

Before the pandemic , I had been slowly working my way through a list of New York restaurants so iconic that I was embarrassed to have never patronized them .
High on the docket was Raoul ’ s , a bistro and celebrity magnet in SoHo that opened in 1975 and is best known , foodwise , for its burger au poivre : a brisket-blend patty encrusted in lightly crushed peppercorns , topped with a wedge of triple-cream Saint André cheese and a handful of salad ( watercress , sliced cornichons , and red onion , dressed in vinaigrette ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and served with a velvety au-poivre sauce .
For a long time , it was available only at the bar , and in extremely limited quantities—first come , first served , and then it was gone .
A couple of weeks ago , I finally ate the burger au poivre , but not at Raoul ’ s and not even in New York .
I ate it in New Hampshire , where my family spent the month of June .
Raoul ’ s is one of many restaurants in New York , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with an online startup called Goldbelly to ship their food nationwide .
I had used Goldbelly to send gifts from Russ & Daughters ( specifically , the “ New York Brunch ” package , which comes with Nova , bagels , cream cheese , babka , and a pound of coffee ) to far-off friends .
What would it be like , I wondered , to take a food tour of my own city from two hundred and fifty miles away ?
The box from Raoul ’ s contained four raw patties ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cold by the time they arrived ) , plus peppercorns , cheese , sauce , vinaigrette , and buns .
All that was missing were the salad components , which I had no trouble finding at a grocery store , and fries , which we picked up from a local restaurant .
The cooking instructions were as simple to follow as the end result was momentously lavish .
For dessert , we opened pints from Malai , a Southeast Asian-inspired ice-cream shop in Cobble Hill , which dry ice had kept so deep-frozen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ handle for more than a few seconds .
A set of four seasonal flavors included buttery star anise and spiced peanut crunch , the latter featuring chikki ( a brittle made with ghee and jaggery ) and a gentle dose of cayenne .
Another night , I learned how easy it is to steam pastrami—from Pastrami Queen , on the Upper East Side—in the oven , using a little water and a lot of tinfoil .
We got two lunches out of the “ Choose Your Own Soup & Pierogi Pack ” from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its unmistakable Ukrainian borscht and mushroom-barley soup , warmed on the stove , and potato pierogi , boiled to order .
We made an afternoon ritual of Mexican-style popsicles—a dozen to a box , a pallet of paletas—from the pushcart turned Greenwich Village shop La Newyorkina , passion fruit and arroz con leche dripping down our chins .
And we paired our nightly episode of television with slices of cream-cheese-frosted carrot cake from Lloyd ’ s , a Bronx bakery that ’ s famous for it .
The whole exercise was mostly delightful @ @ @ @ @ @ @ carbon footprint of the shipping , environmentally irresponsible .
It also made me extremely wistful .
Without a room full of fellow-diners bearing witness , without a professionally made Martini to accompany it , had I eaten a Raoul ’ s burger at all ?
Is a restaurant still a restaurant when you divorce its food from time and space ?
I had considered ordering a pack of pizzas from Joe ’ s in Greenwich Village , my preferred slice shop .
But the small print on the Goldbelly listing explained that the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but from Ann Arbor , Michigan , where Joe ’ s opened an outpost last year , and I couldn ’ t bring myself to add the pies to my cart .
What I love about the original location , as much as the pizza itself , is that it ’ s on my path from the West Fourth Street subway station to Film Forum .
It ’ s the perfect place to stand and inhale a slice before slipping into the cool darkness of a movie theatre , surrounded by strangers , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ offerings $ 10- $ 249 . )
♦

Before the pandemic, I had been slowly working my way through a list of New York restaurants so iconic that I was embarrassed to have never patronized them. High on the docket was Raoul’s, a bistro and celebrity magnet in SoHo that opened in 1975 and is best known, foodwise, for its burger au poivre: a brisket-blend patty encrusted in lightly crushed peppercorns, topped with a wedge of triple-cream Saint André cheese and a handful of salad (watercress, sliced cornichons, and red onion, dressed in vinaigrette), sandwiched in a challah bun, and served with a velvety au-poivre sauce. For a long time, it was available only at the bar, and in extremely limited quantities—first come, first served, and then it was gone.
A couple of weeks ago, I finally ate the burger au poivre, but not at Raoul’s and not even in New York. I ate it in New Hampshire, where my family spent the month of June. Raoul’s is one of many restaurants in New York, and all over the country, that work with an online startup called Goldbelly to ship their food nationwide. I had used Goldbelly to send gifts from Russ & Daughters (specifically, the “New York Brunch” package, which comes with Nova, bagels, cream cheese, babka, and a pound of coffee) to far-off friends. What would it be like, I wondered, to take a food tour of my own city from two hundred and fifty miles away?
Among Goldbelly’s offerings are boxes of a dozen Mexican-style popsicles, or paletas, packed in dry ice, from La Newyorkina, a pushcart turned Greenwich Village shop. Photograph by Laura Letinsky for The New Yorker
The box from Raoul’s contained four raw patties (frozen when sent, and defrosted but cold by the time they arrived), plus peppercorns, cheese, sauce, vinaigrette, and buns. All that was missing were the salad components, which I had no trouble finding at a grocery store, and fries, which we picked up from a local restaurant. The cooking instructions were as simple to follow as the end result was momentously lavish. For dessert, we opened pints from Malai, a South Asian-inspired ice-cream shop in Cobble Hill, which dry ice had kept so deep-frozen in transit that they were painful to handle for more than a few seconds. A set of four seasonal flavors included buttery star anise and spiced peanut crunch, the latter featuring chikki (a brittle made with ghee and jaggery) and a gentle dose of cayenne.
Another night, I learned how easy it is to steam pastrami—from Pastrami Queen, on the Upper East Side—in the oven, using a little water and a lot of tinfoil. We got two lunches out of the “Choose Your Own Soup & Pierogi Pack” from the beloved East Village diner Veselka: its unmistakable Ukrainian borscht and mushroom-barley soup, warmed on the stove, and potato pierogi, boiled to order. We made an afternoon ritual of Mexican-style popsicles—a dozen to a box, a pallet of paletas—from the pushcart turned Greenwich Village shop La Newyorkina, passion fruit and arroz con leche dripping down our chins. And we paired our nightly episode of television with slices of cream-cheese-frosted carrot cake from Lloyd’s, a Bronx bakery that’s famous for it.
Salumi from Salumeria Biellese, in Chelsea, and sourdough from Bourke Street Bakery, in NoMad, are also available. Photograph by Laura Letinsky for The New Yorker
The whole exercise was mostly delightful, if expensive and, considering the carbon footprint of the shipping, environmentally irresponsible. It also made me extremely wistful. Without a room full of fellow-diners bearing witness, without a professionally made Martini to accompany it, had I eaten a Raoul’s burger at all? Is a restaurant still a restaurant when you divorce its food from time and space? I had considered ordering a pack of pizzas from Joe’s in Greenwich Village, my preferred slice shop. But the small print on the Goldbelly listing explained that the pies were shipped not from New York but from Ann Arbor, Michigan, where Joe’s opened an outpost last year, and I couldn’t bring myself to add the pies to my cart. What I love about the original location, as much as the pizza itself, is that it’s on my path from the West Fourth Street subway station to Film Forum. It’s the perfect place to stand and inhale a slice before slipping into the cool darkness of a movie theatre, surrounded by strangers, alone but never lonely. (Goldbelly offerings $10-$249.) ♦
A previous version of this article incorrectly described the geographic inspiration for Malai’s ice cream.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-07-10--The Fresh Relevance of the Dance on Camera Festival

With live dance performances mostly on pause , dancemakers have been pivoting to video in a hurry .
This makes @ @ @ @ @ , now in its forty-eighth year , especially relevant .
Streaming online July 17-20 ( @ @ @ @ @ showcases short films , including Susan Misner ’ s powerful and timely “ Bend , @ @ @ @ @ such as Khadifa Wong ’ s “ Uprooted : The Journey of Jazz Dance ” @ @ @ @ @ illuminates an often disrespected genre and a history as complex as that of race in @ @

With live dance performances mostly on pause, dancemakers have been pivoting to video in a hurry. This makes the Dance on Camera festival, now in its forty-eighth year, especially relevant. Streaming online July 17-20 (at dancefilms.org), it showcases short films, including Susan Misner’s powerful and timely “Bend,” and feature documentaries, such as Khadifa Wong’s “Uprooted: The Journey of Jazz Dance” (above), which illuminates an often disrespected genre and a history as complex as that of race in America.


newyorker--2020-07-10--A Preview of How a Biden White House Might Make Policy

In April , Bernie Sanders endorsed Joe Biden during a split-screen , live-streamed video event , bringing the Democratic Party ’ s Presidential-primary race effectively to an end .
The two former Senate colleagues , suddenly all smiles , announced a plan to appoint representatives to six “ unity task forces , ” which , as Sanders said , “ would look at some of the most important issues facing this country.
” It was , in a way , a magnanimous act by Biden—he ’ d just spent a year being dismissed by the Party ’ s left wing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ here he was , welcoming Sanders surrogates to bend the ears of his aides and allies .
But it was also , at the time , seen as a political necessity .
Everyone remembered the harmful divisions that remained between the supporters of Hillary Clinton and those of Sanders after the 2016 primaries .
And in the coming general election , despite the emphatic support he ’ d received this year from voters in the South Carolina primary and after , Biden would need the energy—for fund-raising , for attracting volunteers—that Sanders had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Biden went forward , the thinking went , he would have to turn left .
By Wednesday , when the task forces released the result of their work—a hundred-and-ten-page report containing hundreds of policy recommendations on climate change , criminal justice , the economy , education , health care , and immigration—the party unity that the committees were meant to help along had already been accomplished .
Polling suggests that the vast majority of Sanders ’ s supporters , like those of most other candidates in this year ’ s Democratic primary , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ task forces ’ report , though , could be an early clue to how policy creation and debate would occur in a Biden Administration , and how much of a voice the left wing of the Party would have .
Sanders , hours after the report was released , struck an uncharacteristically optimistic note .
“ I think that the compromise they came up with , if implemented , will make Biden the most progressive President since F.D.R.
, ” he told MSNBC ’ s Chris Hayes .
The Sanders-appointed representatives on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ left crowing .
Varshini Prakash , a leader of the Sunrise Movement , who served on the climate-change committee alongside Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and the former Secretary of State John Kerry , tweeted , “ Here ’ s the topline : we ’ ve moved the needle a lot , especially on environmental justice and upping Biden ’ s ambition.
” Analilia Mejia , Sanders ’ s former national political director , who helped oversee the task forces , tweeted , “ Bernie taskforce appointees pushed on EVERY issue @ BernieSanders stood for with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the criminal-justice-reform committee had perhaps the most complex job .
Biden was a key figure in the tough-on-crime era of American politics , when the number of people imprisoned in America exploded .
During the primaries , he was haunted by his role in the 1994 crime bill , which , among other things , granted billions of dollars to states to build prisons if they enacted tough sentencing laws .
He has spoken about the sentencing disparities created during this time as a “ big mistake , ” citing their devastating @ @ @ @ @ @ @ continues to defend the crime bill as a vehicle for good policies , such as the ban on assault weapons and the Violence Against Women Act .
The criminal-justice-reform task force , by evaluating the laws and consequences produced by tough-on-crime politics , would essentially be going back over aspects of Biden ’ s own record .
Meanwhile , during the six weeks that the task force was meeting , public attention and sentiment on issues like policing and mass incarceration changed dramatically .
The task force ’ s members—which included the former @ @ @ @ @ @ @ campaign ’ s senior adviser Symone Sanders—were announced on May 13th .
George Floyd was murdered twelve days later .
And then , as protests broke out around the country and Biden was asked to respond to them , he rejected activist calls to cut funding for police departments and embraced more circumscribed ideas , like calling for a ban on choke holds and training police in de-escalation techniques .
The task force came up with a list of sixty-five recommendations , a third of which had already appeared , in some form @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s campaign released last year .
Sanders ’ s representatives were able to advance their goals mainly by adding teeth to provisions that Biden had previously supported in a more general sense , such as ending cash bail .
( The report recommends withholding funds from states that continue to use it . )
Among the other recommendations : incentivizing prison closures , and reinvesting the savings in communities most affected by mass incarceration ; and dedicating federal funds to “ create a civilian corps of unarmed first responders such as social @ @ @ @ @ @ @ health professionals , who can handle nonviolent emergencies.
” But consensus proved elusive on two of the biggest items that the Sanders representatives came into the conversations hoping for—the full legalization of marijuana and an end to the legal doctrine that protects police officers from lawsuits for misconduct .
Politico described “ heated debates ” and “ huge battles ” on these points .
In the end , the report recommends “ reining in ” the doctrine of qualified immunity—vague language that disappointed activists—and calls for decriminalizing marijuana use , legalizing medical marijuana @ @ @ @ @ @ @ use and possession , which are all positions that Biden previously held .
( The Atlantic recently looked at Biden ’ s continuing resistance to marijuana legalization . )
“ This is a starting point , ” Chiraag Bains , a Sanders appointee to the task force and a former Justice Department official , told me .
“ We need to bring in more voices , and we need to include broader and even deeper reforms .
And I think we really need to listen to the Black leaders speaking out in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ another Sanders appointee , and a state representative in South Carolina , told me he thought that the task force had done a “ good job , ” but that “ we ’ ve got a lot of work to do to bring President Biden in line with what I believe the bulk of Americans want to see happen in the realm of marijuana.
” After the Black Lives Matter protests that broke out in late May , Bamberg said , the task force ’ s conversations were “ reinvigorated.
” And while @ @ @ @ @ @ @ some cases , “ make substantial moves , ” Bamberg said , there “ are areas where Vice-President Biden feels how he feels about the issue .
And he is the nominee .
He is the candidate .
All we could do is come up with the recommendations.
” Rachel Barkow , a professor at New York University ’ s School of Law and the author of “ Prisoners of Politics : Breaking the Cycle of Mass Incarceration , ” told me that the report was clearly a compromise document .
“ Would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
Yeah , ” she said .
“ But , given where Biden was , I think this is a big improvement .
And it would be wonderful to have this in the Democratic Party platform.
” Policing , she pointed out , is a local matter , a countrywide patchwork of rules and practices , and a President ’ s power over it is relatively limited .
“ I actually think it ’ s very important for advocates and folks on the ground to know that there ’ s no one-stop shop @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ We could elect an abolitionist as the President , and that wouldn ’ t do it either .
”

In April, Bernie Sanders endorsed Joe Biden during a split-screen, live-streamed video event, bringing the Democratic Party’s Presidential-primary race effectively to an end. The two former Senate colleagues, suddenly all smiles, announced a plan to appoint representatives to six “unity task forces,” which, as Sanders said, “would look at some of the most important issues facing this country.” It was, in a way, a magnanimous act by Biden—he’d just spent a year being dismissed by the Party’s left wing, which worships Sanders, and now here he was, welcoming Sanders surrogates to bend the ears of his aides and allies. But it was also, at the time, seen as a political necessity. Everyone remembered the harmful divisions that remained between the supporters of Hillary Clinton and those of Sanders after the 2016 primaries. And in the coming general election, despite the emphatic support he’d received this year from voters in the South Carolina primary and after, Biden would need the energy—for fund-raising, for attracting volunteers—that Sanders had inspired during the primary campaign. Before Biden went forward, the thinking went, he would have to turn left.
By Wednesday, when the task forces released the result of their work—a hundred-and-ten-page report containing hundreds of policy recommendations on climate change, criminal justice, the economy, education, health care, and immigration—the party unity that the committees were meant to help along had already been accomplished. Polling suggests that the vast majority of Sanders’s supporters, like those of most other candidates in this year’s Democratic primary, have come around to Biden. The task forces’ report, though, could be an early clue to how policy creation and debate would occur in a Biden Administration, and how much of a voice the left wing of the Party would have. Sanders, hours after the report was released, struck an uncharacteristically optimistic note. “I think that the compromise they came up with, if implemented, will make Biden the most progressive President since F.D.R.,” he told MSNBC’s Chris Hayes. The Sanders-appointed representatives on the climate-change task force, in particular, left crowing. Varshini Prakash, a leader of the Sunrise Movement, who served on the climate-change committee alongside Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and the former Secretary of State John Kerry, tweeted, “Here’s the topline: we’ve moved the needle a lot, especially on environmental justice and upping Biden’s ambition.” Analilia Mejia, Sanders’s former national political director, who helped oversee the task forces, tweeted, “Bernie taskforce appointees pushed on EVERY issue @BernieSanders stood for with tenacity.”
Of the six task forces, the criminal-justice-reform committee had perhaps the most complex job. Biden was a key figure in the tough-on-crime era of American politics, when the number of people imprisoned in America exploded. During the primaries, he was haunted by his role in the 1994 crime bill, which, among other things, granted billions of dollars to states to build prisons if they enacted tough sentencing laws. He has spoken about the sentencing disparities created during this time as a “big mistake,” citing their devastating consequences for Black communities. But he continues to defend the crime bill as a vehicle for good policies, such as the ban on assault weapons and the Violence Against Women Act. The criminal-justice-reform task force, by evaluating the laws and consequences produced by tough-on-crime politics, would essentially be going back over aspects of Biden’s own record. Meanwhile, during the six weeks that the task force was meeting, public attention and sentiment on issues like policing and mass incarceration changed dramatically. The task force’s members—which included the former Attorney General Eric Holder and the Biden campaign’s senior adviser Symone Sanders—were announced on May 13th. George Floyd was murdered twelve days later. And then, as protests broke out around the country and Biden was asked to respond to them, he rejected activist calls to cut funding for police departments and embraced more circumscribed ideas, like calling for a ban on choke holds and training police in de-escalation techniques.
The task force came up with a list of sixty-five recommendations, a third of which had already appeared, in some form, in the criminal-justice plan that Biden’s campaign released last year. Sanders’s representatives were able to advance their goals mainly by adding teeth to provisions that Biden had previously supported in a more general sense, such as ending cash bail. (The report recommends withholding funds from states that continue to use it.) Among the other recommendations: incentivizing prison closures, and reinvesting the savings in communities most affected by mass incarceration; and dedicating federal funds to “create a civilian corps of unarmed first responders such as social workers, EMTs, and trained mental health professionals, who can handle nonviolent emergencies.” But consensus proved elusive on two of the biggest items that the Sanders representatives came into the conversations hoping for—the full legalization of marijuana and an end to the legal doctrine that protects police officers from lawsuits for misconduct. Politico described “heated debates” and “huge battles” on these points. In the end, the report recommends “reining in” the doctrine of qualified immunity—vague language that disappointed activists—and calls for decriminalizing marijuana use, legalizing medical marijuana, and expunging past marijuana convictions for use and possession, which are all positions that Biden previously held. (The Atlantic recently looked at Biden’s continuing resistance to marijuana legalization.)
“This is a starting point,” Chiraag Bains, a Sanders appointee to the task force and a former Justice Department official, told me. “We need to bring in more voices, and we need to include broader and even deeper reforms. And I think we really need to listen to the Black leaders speaking out in the country right now.” Justin Bamberg, another Sanders appointee, and a state representative in South Carolina, told me he thought that the task force had done a “good job,” but that “we’ve got a lot of work to do to bring President Biden in line with what I believe the bulk of Americans want to see happen in the realm of marijuana.” After the Black Lives Matter protests that broke out in late May, Bamberg said, the task force’s conversations were “reinvigorated.” And while Biden’s team did, in some cases, “make substantial moves,” Bamberg said, there “are areas where Vice-President Biden feels how he feels about the issue. And he is the nominee. He is the candidate. All we could do is come up with the recommendations.”
Rachel Barkow, a professor at New York University’s School of Law and the author of “Prisoners of Politics: Breaking the Cycle of Mass Incarceration,” told me that the report was clearly a compromise document. “Would I have preferred a more robust platform? Yeah,” she said. “But, given where Biden was, I think this is a big improvement. And it would be wonderful to have this in the Democratic Party platform.” Policing, she pointed out, is a local matter, a countrywide patchwork of rules and practices, and a President’s power over it is relatively limited. “I actually think it’s very important for advocates and folks on the ground to know that there’s no one-stop shop for criminal-justice reform,” Barkow said. “We could elect an abolitionist as the President, and that wouldn’t do it either.”


newyorker--2020-07-10--The Unstrung Power of Elaine Stritch in “Original Cast Album: Company”

D. A. Pennebaker ’ s documentary “ Original Cast Album : Company , ” which is now streaming on the Criterion Channel , has long been as widely revered as it was hard to find .
As proof of its fame , the 1970 film was parodied in the 2019 season of “ Documentary Now !
, ” although it wasn ’ t available to stream at the time ; used DVDs of it were selling for nearly a hundred dollars .
“ Company , ” with music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim and a book by George Furth , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ modern musical theatre .
( For example , Adam Driver ’ s performance of the climactic number , “ Being Alive , ” is one of the emotional tentpoles of Noah Baumbach ’ s “ Marriage Story.
” ) But the cinematic transformation of “ Company ” —or , rather , of its songs—in Pennebaker ’ s documentary is an exhilaration .
Staking out the jammed-up intersection of theatre , audio recording , and cinema , “ Original Cast Album : Company ” illuminates all three art forms simultaneously and thrillingly—and at the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ network is the singular artistry of Elaine Stritch .
Stritch played a supporting role in the Broadway show , yet she dominates the documentary of the cast album ’ s recording nearly from start to finish .
Pennebaker and the crew made nearly the entire film in the confines of a recording studio ; Columbia ( now Sony ) was recording the album under the aegis of the record producer Thomas Z. Shepard , joined by Sondheim himself .
( There are only a pair of documentary sequences filmed elsewhere—one a lunch break @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sunrise that the filmmakers found waiting for them after the recording session , which ran eighteen-plus hours and ended at 5:30 A.M. ) The weighty technical apparatus and the administrative infrastructure that goes into recording the album are sketched lightly in the course of the action , giving rise to a brief prelude in which studio cables are plugged in , control-booth decisions are quickly made , members of the orchestra tune up , and the singers rehearse some passages .
This elaborate context establishes , from the start , the special criteria @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as shown in the film , from an onstage performance of the songs .
Then Pennebaker leaps straight into the musical action .
He films the ensemble title tune , “ Company , ” in a succession of extreme closeups of singers in front of dangling microphones—and the first shot is of Stritch .
She launches into the song with ferocious energy and focussed intention , seen in her sharp nods of the head and possessed gazes , and her performance cuts through the crowd of singers like a spotlight .
Her voice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ singer ’ s , but , with her fierce concentration and starkly etched determination , she grabs and holds the camera ’ s eye .
That ’ s no knock on the other singers .
In the next scene , a recording of “ You Could Drive a Person Crazy , ” featuring a trio ( Susan Browning , Pamela Myers , and Donna McKechnie ) , all three actresses—also seen mostly in closeups , which the filmmakers choreograph deftly in pan shots , zooms , and shifts in focus—blend passion and precision @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the documentary shifts perspectives , from the performers at their microphones to the glassed-in and soundproofed control booth , where Shepard and Sondheim evaluate the performances ( in unstinting terms that the actors don ’ t hear ) and make decisions .
This trio sequence gives rise to a comedic moment in which Myers , singing the phrase “ Bobby bubi , ” has trouble with the Yiddish word ; Sondheim comes into the studio and works with her to pronounce the “ u ” as in “ goody.
” It also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are lightly scattered through the film ) with Browning , who drolly sets out the underlying stress of the occasion , saying that singing is easier onstage , because she ’ s dancing at the same time , so “ everything goes together ” and “ the moment passes by , ” whereas “ this is the definitive , it ’ s the end-all and the be-all of this song , and , God , that could drive a person crazy.
” During a lunch break over mugs of beer , Shepard comes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the director , Harold Prince , “ I think we ’ ll finish roughly at four in the morning.
” He proved optimistic .
One of the songs recorded after the break , a rendition of “ The Little Things You Do Together , ” in which Stritch has the lead role among a host of others , again features her decisive , angular , precise gestures , which dominate the ensemble and possess the camera .
The cinematography throughout is both agile and probing : the cameras keep physical distance from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a skin-tight proximity .
( In Dean Jones ’ s performance of “ Being Alive , ” each time he launches into the latter word , the extreme closeups show off the details of his dental work . )
The camera also pans deftly , refocussing on the fly without embarrassment .
( The technical difficulty is built into the texture and the substance of the documentary . )
The cinematographers even offer some smoothly roving shots that prowl around the singers with a feline grace .
“ Original Cast Album : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a grand harmony of dramatic expressions and creative energy .
When the image zooms out to reveal Stritch ’ s place among her fellow-singers , it ’ s clear that she ’ s the dramatic center even of numbers in which she doesn ’ t solo .
The dominance of her gestures has both an expressive and a practical aspect—from within the chorus , she ’ s conducting .
Stritch ’ s solo number , “ The Ladies Who Lunch , ” is saved for last .
All the other singers are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ after three in the morning , they head out , leaving Stritch and the orchestra behind , along with Shepard , Sondheim , and the technicians .
Sondheim is concerned : Stritch ’ s voice , he knows , is tired , and he wants to transpose the song down a half tone .
Stritch is reluctant : she dismisses her fatigue and , though willing to try a take his way , asks to be allowed two additional takes in the original key .
She keeps her radiantly acerbic good humor , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Sondheim , who casually raises the tension , warning her that “ this is the permanent recording , therefore it ’ s important.
” Stritch ’ s first rendition is filmed in a single , uninterrupted four-and-a-half-minute take , and its intensity is almost unbearably great .
Her fatigue is palpable , yet she blasts through it with a reckless power that fuses with her interpretation of the song .
She ’ s hardly singing—rather , she ’ s declaiming the lyrics in a sort of sprechstimme .
Her precise gestures grow unstrung @ @ @ @ @ @ @ voice turns raucous and furious , breaking with an astounding sob-like laugh on the word “ surviving.
” The camera work , so carefully attuned to her interpretive energies , is harrowingly intense : when the frame expands for her flailing outbursts , the image at times loses its own composure , lurching and shuddering along with them .
Bewilderingly , after this take , Shepard tells her , through the control-booth mike , that the performance lacks “ tension ” and is “ flaccid.
” Though Stritch and Sondheim agreed that they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ count goes up to eight , leaving Sondheim shaking his head in dismay and burying it in his arms in despair .
They listen to a playback with Stritch , and she reacts to herself with self-scourging fury , hearing her overtaxed voice and her now slapdash overemphasis , and roaring at herself , “ Wrong !
” and “ Oh , shut up !
” After yet another take , Sondheim suggests to Shepard that they call it a night—that they send Stritch home , record the orchestra backing ( the cost @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day would have been prohibitive ) , and bring Stritch back another day to record the song when her voice is fresh .
Shepard conveys the request to her , and she agrees .

D. A. Pennebaker’s documentary “Original Cast Album: Company,” which is now streaming on the Criterion Channel, has long been as widely revered as it was hard to find. As proof of its fame, the 1970 film was parodied in the 2019 season of “Documentary Now!,” although it wasn’t available to stream at the time; used DVDs of it were selling for nearly a hundred dollars. “Company,” with music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim and a book by George Furth, has of course retained its centrality to modern musical theatre. (For example, Adam Driver’s performance of the climactic number, “Being Alive,” is one of the emotional tentpoles of Noah Baumbach’s “Marriage Story.”) But the cinematic transformation of “Company”—or, rather, of its songs—in Pennebaker’s documentary is an exhilaration. Staking out the jammed-up intersection of theatre, audio recording, and cinema, “Original Cast Album: Company” illuminates all three art forms simultaneously and thrillingly—and at the center of the movie and its thematic network is the singular artistry of Elaine Stritch.
Stritch played a supporting role in the Broadway show, yet she dominates the documentary of the cast album’s recording nearly from start to finish. Pennebaker and the crew made nearly the entire film in the confines of a recording studio; Columbia (now Sony) was recording the album under the aegis of the record producer Thomas Z. Shepard, joined by Sondheim himself. (There are only a pair of documentary sequences filmed elsewhere—one a lunch break midway through, the other showing the sunrise that the filmmakers found waiting for them after the recording session, which ran eighteen-plus hours and ended at 5:30 A.M.) The weighty technical apparatus and the administrative infrastructure that goes into recording the album are sketched lightly in the course of the action, giving rise to a brief prelude in which studio cables are plugged in, control-booth decisions are quickly made, members of the orchestra tune up, and the singers rehearse some passages. This elaborate context establishes, from the start, the special criteria that distinguish the singers’ artistry, as shown in the film, from an onstage performance of the songs.
Then Pennebaker leaps straight into the musical action. He films the ensemble title tune, “Company,” in a succession of extreme closeups of singers in front of dangling microphones—and the first shot is of Stritch. She launches into the song with ferocious energy and focussed intention, seen in her sharp nods of the head and possessed gazes, and her performance cuts through the crowd of singers like a spotlight. Her voice is no more prominent than any other singer’s, but, with her fierce concentration and starkly etched determination, she grabs and holds the camera’s eye.
That’s no knock on the other singers. In the next scene, a recording of “You Could Drive a Person Crazy,” featuring a trio (Susan Browning, Pamela Myers, and Donna McKechnie), all three actresses—also seen mostly in closeups, which the filmmakers choreograph deftly in pan shots, zooms, and shifts in focus—blend passion and precision. Here, as throughout the film, the documentary shifts perspectives, from the performers at their microphones to the glassed-in and soundproofed control booth, where Shepard and Sondheim evaluate the performances (in unstinting terms that the actors don’t hear) and make decisions. This trio sequence gives rise to a comedic moment in which Myers, singing the phrase “Bobby bubi,” has trouble with the Yiddish word; Sondheim comes into the studio and works with her to pronounce the “u” as in “goody.” It also leads to a brief interview (several are lightly scattered through the film) with Browning, who drolly sets out the underlying stress of the occasion, saying that singing is easier onstage, because she’s dancing at the same time, so “everything goes together” and “the moment passes by,” whereas “this is the definitive, it’s the end-all and the be-all of this song, and, God, that could drive a person crazy.”
During a lunch break over mugs of beer, Shepard comes by and tells Sondheim, Stritch, and the director, Harold Prince, “I think we’ll finish roughly at four in the morning.” He proved optimistic. One of the songs recorded after the break, a rendition of “The Little Things You Do Together,” in which Stritch has the lead role among a host of others, again features her decisive, angular, precise gestures, which dominate the ensemble and possess the camera. The cinematography throughout is both agile and probing: the cameras keep physical distance from the performers, zooming in for closeups of a skin-tight proximity. (In Dean Jones’s performance of “Being Alive,” each time he launches into the latter word, the extreme closeups show off the details of his dental work.) The camera also pans deftly, refocussing on the fly without embarrassment. (The technical difficulty is built into the texture and the substance of the documentary.) The cinematographers even offer some smoothly roving shots that prowl around the singers with a feline grace. “Original Cast Album: Company” is a symphony of faces, a grand harmony of dramatic expressions and creative energy. When the image zooms out to reveal Stritch’s place among her fellow-singers, it’s clear that she’s the dramatic center even of numbers in which she doesn’t solo. The dominance of her gestures has both an expressive and a practical aspect—from within the chorus, she’s conducting.
Stritch’s solo number, “The Ladies Who Lunch,” is saved for last. All the other singers are done for the night—and, some time after three in the morning, they head out, leaving Stritch and the orchestra behind, along with Shepard, Sondheim, and the technicians. Sondheim is concerned: Stritch’s voice, he knows, is tired, and he wants to transpose the song down a half tone. Stritch is reluctant: she dismisses her fatigue and, though willing to try a take his way, asks to be allowed two additional takes in the original key. She keeps her radiantly acerbic good humor, joking with Hastings as well as with Sondheim, who casually raises the tension, warning her that “this is the permanent recording, therefore it’s important.” Stritch’s first rendition is filmed in a single, uninterrupted four-and-a-half-minute take, and its intensity is almost unbearably great. Her fatigue is palpable, yet she blasts through it with a reckless power that fuses with her interpretation of the song. She’s hardly singing—rather, she’s declaiming the lyrics in a sort of sprechstimme. Her precise gestures grow unstrung, wild, possessed, and her voice turns raucous and furious, breaking with an astounding sob-like laugh on the word “surviving.” The camera work, so carefully attuned to her interpretive energies, is harrowingly intense: when the frame expands for her flailing outbursts, the image at times loses its own composure, lurching and shuddering along with them.
Bewilderingly, after this take, Shepard tells her, through the control-booth mike, that the performance lacks “tension” and is “flaccid.” Though Stritch and Sondheim agreed that they’d do two more, the count goes up to eight, leaving Sondheim shaking his head in dismay and burying it in his arms in despair. They listen to a playback with Stritch, and she reacts to herself with self-scourging fury, hearing her overtaxed voice and her now slapdash overemphasis, and roaring at herself, “Wrong!” and “Oh, shut up!” After yet another take, Sondheim suggests to Shepard that they call it a night—that they send Stritch home, record the orchestra backing (the cost of bringing the musicians in for another day would have been prohibitive), and bring Stritch back another day to record the song when her voice is fresh. Shepard conveys the request to her, and she agrees.
That retake, which Pennebaker also films, finds her in suave voice, hitting the notes of the song with a light precision and raising her voice to a raucous shred at the dramatic climaxes. It’s the performance that was released on the album, and it provides something drastically different from the first take: a faithful sonic image of the song as composed by Sondheim, perhaps even a performance that closely resembles the ones that she gave nightly onstage. What it lacks is the terrifying power, the abandon, of the first studio effort; the precision and the finesse came at a high price.
Pennebaker himself must have wondered. In the movie’s opening text crawl, which serves as his preface, he writes, “When it was all over, at five thirty in the morning, I was amazed that what I had watched through my camera and what the recording engineers heard through their microphones could be so different. A performance that seemed dramatic and wonderful on film was often for them simply a bad take.” I was reminded, upon seeing the documentary, of an incident involving the great classical pianist Artur Schnabel, whose technique was occasionally fallible but never spoiled his audacious and insightful interpretations. As the magazine Gramophone recounts, while recording Brahms’s Piano Concerto No. 1, in 1938, Schnabel was “confronted by his producer’s plea for greater precision in the first movement’s massive octave outburst.” He responded, “I could play it more accurately‚ but I couldn’t play it better.” So it is with Stritch’s performance of “The Ladies Who Lunch”: the released version is more accurate but not better. (I’ve performed an experiment, rewatching Stritch’s first take with my eyes closed, as if listening to it on a record, and its raggedness is a little more conspicuous, but its shocks and thrills are just as strong.)
The essence of theatre is the fear factor—an anxious astonishment at being in the very same place as a performance so extreme that one dreads it spilling offstage, even as, in its emotional power, it’s already doing so. That’s the feeling that movies have trouble capturing—the essence of the cinema isn’t what’s given by the performer but what the camera takes of the actor’s very being. Often, a performance of great intensity, when filmed, seems merely to be recorded, neutralizing both its cinematic essence and its theatrical one. Only rarely does the opposite happen—that a performance of hypnotic cinematic allure also seems as if it’s bursting through the screen. That’s what some of the greatest actors do: it’s the height of expression achieved by such performers as Joan Crawford, Judy Garland, Gena Rowlands, and John Cassavetes, in duets with their most inspired directors. And it’s what Stritch, in connection with Pennebaker, achieves here, in one of the greatest of all outtakes.


newyorker--2020-07-10--Trump Warns That Social Distancing in Schools Would Make It Harder for Students to Cheat Off One Ano

Trump Warns That Social Distancing in Schools Would Make It Harder for Students to Cheat Off One Another’s Papers

WASHINGTON , D.C. ( The Borowitz Report ) —Laying out his plans for reopening the nation ’ s schools in the fall , Donald J. Trump expressed concern that social distancing would make it “ really hard ” for students to cheat off one another ’ s papers .
Speaking to reporters at the White House , Trump said that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention ’ s recommendations for social distancing in schools “ would only work for students who can see their neighbor ’ s papers from six feet away.
” “ Unless your eyesight is really @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feet away or whatever you ’ re not going to be able to copy the other person ’ s answers , ” Trump said .
“ Especially if the person writes really small , which they sometimes do.
” Trump recommended that teachers test their students ’ eyesight on the first day of school to determine how far away they can sit from one another while still having a clear view of their neighbors ’ papers .
“ I don ’ t know why those beauties at the C.D.C .
didn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Responding to a reporter ’ s question , Trump said that he could not recall any time that other students tried to cheat off his papers .

WASHINGTON, D.C. (The Borowitz Report)—Laying out his plans for reopening the nation’s schools in the fall, Donald J. Trump expressed concern that social distancing would make it “really hard” for students to cheat off one another’s papers.
Speaking to reporters at the White House, Trump said that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s recommendations for social distancing in schools “would only work for students who can see their neighbor’s papers from six feet away.”
“Unless your eyesight is really good, if you’re six feet away or whatever you’re not going to be able to copy the other person’s answers,” Trump said. “Especially if the person writes really small, which they sometimes do.”
Trump recommended that teachers test their students’ eyesight on the first day of school to determine how far away they can sit from one another while still having a clear view of their neighbors’ papers.
“I don’t know why those beauties at the C.D.C. didn’t think of this,” he said.
Responding to a reporter’s question, Trump said that he could not recall any time that other students tried to cheat off his papers.


newyorker--2020-07-10--Michaela Coel of “I May Destroy You,” and the State of the Biden Campaign

At the beginning of the year , Joe Biden ’ s campaign looked like it might never take flight .
Yet , by March , he had all but clinched the Democratic nomination .
Then the country shut down , which has prevented Biden from campaigning in any traditional way , while possibly helping his candidacy .
David Remnick interviews the South Carolina congressman James Clyburn , who endorsed Biden and defends the intentions behind the controversial 1994 crime bill , which both he and Biden supported .
And Michaela Coel , the creator of HBO ’ s “ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she turned an experience of sexual assault into a nuanced , often funny TV drama .
The State of the Biden Campaign Katy Waldman once compared the presumptive Democratic nominee to a “ messy Labrador.
” She and other staff writers reflect on how Biden ’ s campaign is handling one of the most tumultuous periods in modern times .
Representative James Clyburn Speaks up for Joe Biden ’ s Record on Race The most senior African-American in Congress , Clyburn helped Biden win the critical South Carolina primary .
He defends Biden @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Doreen St. Félix interviews the writer , actor , and director about her new series , which turns an experience of sexual assault into a drama with a touch of the absurd .

Illustration by Aurélia Durand
Download a transcript.
At the beginning of the year, Joe Biden’s campaign looked like it might never take flight. Yet, by March, he had all but clinched the Democratic nomination. Then the country shut down, which has prevented Biden from campaigning in any traditional way, while possibly helping his candidacy. David Remnick interviews the South Carolina congressman James Clyburn, who endorsed Biden and defends the intentions behind the controversial 1994 crime bill, which both he and Biden supported. And Michaela Coel, the creator of HBO’s “I May Destroy You,” explains how she turned an experience of sexual assault into a nuanced, often funny TV drama.
The State of the Biden Campaign
Katy Waldman once compared the presumptive Democratic nominee to a “messy Labrador.” She and other staff writers reflect on how Biden’s campaign is handling one of the most tumultuous periods in modern times.
Representative James Clyburn Speaks up for Joe Biden’s Record on Race
The most senior African-American in Congress, Clyburn helped Biden win the critical South Carolina primary. He defends Biden’s controversial record on racial justice.
Michaela Coel on Making “I May Destroy You”
Doreen St. Félix interviews the writer, actor, and director about her new series, which turns an experience of sexual assault into a drama with a touch of the absurd.


newyorker--2020-07-10--“Grosse Fatigue” Tells the Story of Life on Earth

A fashion of the Baroque era , the Wunderkammer , or “ cabinet of curiosities , ” was a wealthy patron ’ s collection of random artifacts from across time and space : animals , art , plant specimens , mechanical devices , religious relics .
Bits of ancient Roman statuary were nestled next to conch shells , as portrayed in a painting by Frans Francken the Younger from 1636 .
The purpose of the collection was to be admired , the objects examined one by one as hints of the world ’ s unknowable breadth .
The French artist @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ Grosse Fatigue ” ( “ Major Exhaustion , ” or , as a 1994 comedy translated the phrase , “ Dead Tired ” ) , is a Wunderkammer of and for the Internet era .
Made in 2013 , the piece is now streaming on YouTube until July 16th as part of an online exhibition called “ Video Lives , ” from the Museum of Modern Art .
( Because video art is so rarely displayed in full online , it is something of a rare item in its own right @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from and dissects the endless archives we ’ ve created online .
It ’ s somewhere between a video essay ( that arcane format ) and a supercut , collaging found archival clips , Henrot ’ s own footage , meme GIFs , and documentary shots from inside the Smithsonian , where Henrot developed the piece during a residency .
“ Grosse Fatigue ” depicts , more or less , the evolution of life on Earth , mashing up creation myths and scientific theories , art , poetry , and the human body @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that recalls the seventeenth century , when all of those categories were thought to have more in common .
The video takes place on a computer screen : on a familiar Mac desktop , with a hard drive labelled “ HISTORY_OF_UNIVERSE , ” a cursor opens a file titled “ GROSSE_FATIGUE_.
” Offscreen , the artist Akwetey Orraca-Tetteh recites an epic poem written by Henrot and the poet Jacob Bromberg , and a propulsive beat composed by Joakim Bouaziz plays in the background .
File-browser frames pop up and close , nesting in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s a digital data binge in which resonance matters more than fact or logic .
“ In the beginning , the universe was a black egg where Heaven and Earth were mixed together , ” Orraca-Tetteh intones .
Wikipedia pages scroll .
Henrot paints a Zen circle in ink wash on a bright yellow background , symbolizing the state of an empty mind .
A photograph of Jackson Pollock in the act of painting opens over a video clip of someone wearing galaxy-print pants on the subway , the splashes of paint @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coelacanth , ” invoking the still-extant species of fish that might have gradually evolved into land vertebrates .
Smithsonian conservators gently examine preserved bird bodies .
There ’ s an element of “ Grosse Fatigue ” that seems akin to ASMR : when the artist ’ s hands peel a black-dyed egg or roll an orange like a ball of clay , the sounds and gestures get inside your brain , tickling nerve endings and accessing subconscious archetypes .
It ’ s like a headier version of a TikTok compilation .
Henrot ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sculpture , video , and installation , often collaging different media and subject matters together .
Her themes are sprawling : hope , archives , classical myth , the way the detritus of the mind spills out into the world of objects .
The format of “ Grosse Fatigue ” is particularly successful at illuminating the crush of information we face in the twenty-first century , daunting and confusing but also magical , infinitely recombinable .
The seventeenth-century Wunderkammer gained its value because of a scarcity of knowledge , which is now obsolete—we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ looks like .
Henrot , working in a period of overwhelming accessibility , restores a sense of wonder and discovery , the epiphany of holding a mysterious specimen in your hands .

A fashion of the Baroque era, the Wunderkammer, or “cabinet of curiosities,” was a wealthy patron’s collection of random artifacts from across time and space: animals, art, plant specimens, mechanical devices, religious relics. Bits of ancient Roman statuary were nestled next to conch shells, as portrayed in a painting by Frans Francken the Younger from 1636. The purpose of the collection was to be admired, the objects examined one by one as hints of the world’s unknowable breadth.
The French artist Camille Henrot’s thirteen-minute video-art masterpiece, “Grosse Fatigue” (“Major Exhaustion,” or, as a 1994 comedy translated the phrase, “Dead Tired”), is a Wunderkammer of and for the Internet era. Made in 2013, the piece is now streaming on YouTube until July 16th as part of an online exhibition called “Video Lives,” from the Museum of Modern Art. (Because video art is so rarely displayed in full online, it is something of a rare item in its own right.) “Grosse Fatigue” emerges from and dissects the endless archives we’ve created online. It’s somewhere between a video essay (that arcane format) and a supercut, collaging found archival clips, Henrot’s own footage, meme GIFs, and documentary shots from inside the Smithsonian, where Henrot developed the piece during a residency.
“Grosse Fatigue” depicts, more or less, the evolution of life on Earth, mashing up creation myths and scientific theories, art, poetry, and the human body, with a conspicuous lack of boundaries that recalls the seventeenth century, when all of those categories were thought to have more in common. The video takes place on a computer screen: on a familiar Mac desktop, with a hard drive labelled “HISTORY_OF_UNIVERSE,” a cursor opens a file titled “GROSSE_FATIGUE_.” Offscreen, the artist Akwetey Orraca-Tetteh recites an epic poem written by Henrot and the poet Jacob Bromberg, and a propulsive beat composed by Joakim Bouaziz plays in the background. File-browser frames pop up and close, nesting in one another, piling up. It’s a digital data binge in which resonance matters more than fact or logic.
“In the beginning, the universe was a black egg where Heaven and Earth were mixed together,” Orraca-Tetteh intones. Wikipedia pages scroll. Henrot paints a Zen circle in ink wash on a bright yellow background, symbolizing the state of an empty mind. A photograph of Jackson Pollock in the act of painting opens over a video clip of someone wearing galaxy-print pants on the subway, the splashes of paint resembling the stars. Orraca-Tetteh chants “coelacanth,” invoking the still-extant species of fish that might have gradually evolved into land vertebrates. Smithsonian conservators gently examine preserved bird bodies. There’s an element of “Grosse Fatigue” that seems akin to ASMR: when the artist’s hands peel a black-dyed egg or roll an orange like a ball of clay, the sounds and gestures get inside your brain, tickling nerve endings and accessing subconscious archetypes. It’s like a headier version of a TikTok compilation.
Henrot’s work has moved between drawing, sculpture, video, and installation, often collaging different media and subject matters together. Her themes are sprawling: hope, archives, classical myth, the way the detritus of the mind spills out into the world of objects. The format of “Grosse Fatigue” is particularly successful at illuminating the crush of information we face in the twenty-first century, daunting and confusing but also magical, infinitely recombinable. The seventeenth-century Wunderkammer gained its value because of a scarcity of knowledge, which is now obsolete—we can Google anything and see what it looks like. Henrot, working in a period of overwhelming accessibility, restores a sense of wonder and discovery, the epiphany of holding a mysterious specimen in your hands.