→ May 7, 2023
→ By

Stick to baseball, 5/6/23.

For subscribers to The Athletic, I posted a ranking of the top 50 prospects in this year’s MLB draft, and had a draft blog post earlier in the week that looked at Paul Skenes, Dylan Crews, Kyle Teel, Jake Gelof, and Alex Mooney. I also did a Q&A at the Athletic to talk about the draft.

My guest on the Keith Law Show this week was Will Leitch, whose new novel, The Time Has Come, comes out on May 16th (pre-order here), talking about this book and his last one, plus a little about the Cardinals and just our general banter. You can listen and subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Stitcher, amazon, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Over at Paste, I reviewed Earth, one of the hottest new games of this year, one that reminds me a lot of Wingspan but with more of the engine-building.

I’m on Spoutible and Bluesky now, both as keithlaw.

And now, the links…

  • Longreads first: New York looks at Richard Walter, a self-appointed criminal profiler who testified in multiple murder cases despite a lack of credentials and increasingly tall tales about his resume. National media coverage of Walter and his so-called “Vidocq Society” helped elevate his profile (no pun intended) and allowed him to continue pulling his con for two decades – even to this day.
  • The Health and Human Services Department has warned hospitals that deny women abortions when they experience medical emergencies that they are violating federal law.
  • More than half of the early adopters of Twitter Blue have already unsubscribed. It’s almost like the guy running the place lacks a business plan!
  • I can’t even keep up with the tide of Clarence Thomas corruption stories, but here’s one I caught that doesn’t seem to have received enough attention – Harlan Crow said that tenant protections hurt his profits, and Thomas voted twice to end them.
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→ May 4, 2023
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Music update, April 2023.

Whew, that was a very strong month, or maybe I’m just finding more music every time I do this. I actually cut a few tracks (two were from Deeper and Beach Fossils) and we’re still at 26 songs and 100 minutes. Anyway, you know what to do.

Dexys Midnight Runners – I’m Going to Get Free. Yes, that’s the same band that produced “Come On Eileen” forty years ago, and I feel reasonably certain this is the best thing they’ve put out since then, a jaunty, bouncy, incredibly catchy track that recalls the same throwback sound they rode to the top of the charts when I was still in elementary school.

Speedy Ortiz – Scabs. Welcome back to Sadie Dupuis and company, who’ve been gone way too long. This is their first new track since 2018 and has the same sort of dissonant and off-kilter melodies that have made them one of my favorite artists of the last decade.

Pynch – Tin Foil. This British alternative act is about to release its first album, and I love the smartass lyrics within this post-punk envelope that sounds like Wire mixed with the Twerps. The line “I’m saving up for the apocalypse/Because there’s gonna be deals” still makes me laugh every time.

WITCH feat. Sampa the Great – Avalanche of Love. WITCH were pioneers of what is now called Zamrock, but hadn’t released any new material since about 1985. It turns out the band have been recording a new album, with this second single featuring their fellow Zambian Sampa the Great on vocals.

Blondshell – Salad. Sabrina Teitleman, who records as Blondshell, has been tabbed the next big thing by a number of publications, and just released her debut album under this moniker (The Guardian posted a rave review). It’s full of angsty, often indignant tracks about bad relationships and the misogyny of modern society; the lyrics and the melodies are pretty inconsistent in quality, but when she peaks, as she mostly does here on “Salad,” it’s really compelling and separates her from the huge class of female singer-songwriters mining similar thematic territory.

Pinkshift – to me. This Baltimore band released its debut album in October and return now with this one-off single, which sounds like Hole mashed up with some My Chemical Romance and a doom-inspired drum line.

Chappaqua Wrestling – Need You No More. I assumed these guys were from New York when I first heard this track, but they’re from Brighton and do a sort of mashup of Britpop and ‘90s American alternative. The laconic vocals would usually bother me, but they contrast so well with the high-energy guitars behind them I’ll forgive the delivery.

LA Priest – It’s You. I loved Wild Beasts, and when LA Priest first crossed my radar after that band broke up, I was sure it was their former lead singer or perhaps a lost track from one of their last albums. Nope, it’s an entirely different artist, named Sam Dust, who just works in a similar musical vein.

DEADLETTER – The Snitching Hour. A ska-tinged post-punk act from London with a Yard Act-like approach to their vocals. Good luck getting the “Love thy neighbor” chorus out of thy head.

Altin Gün – Su Siziyor. Another great track from this Anatolian rock act, with heavy psychedelic vibes over a strong rock foundation, from their new album Ask (which should have a cedilla under the s). Strongly recommended for fans of Khruangbin.

Jessie Ware – Begin Again. I don’t tend to go in for “sophisti-pop,” and there’s definitely something carefully constructed about this track from Ware’s latest album (the empty lyric “Give me something good that’s even better than it seems” might as well come from ChatGPT), but man does this thing bang.

Arlo Parks – Blades. I can’t wait for Parks’s sophomore album My Soft Machine to drop on the 26th of this month, as her voice and lyrics sound as strong as they did on her Mercury Prize-winning debut but with a new direction in her music.

Jorja Smith – Try Me. Smith’s debut album Lost and Found made my top albums of 2018, but since then it’s been all EPs, collaborations, and one-off singles like this one, which showcases her incredible, sultry voice over a jazzy drum-and-bass backdrop.

Romy – Enjoy Your Life. That’s Romy of the xx, who also has provided vocals on Jamie xx’s standout track “Loud Places.” She’s been teasing her solo debut album for at least three years now, with no new news about its release, although between this and last year’s “Strong” I have to think a full-length LP is coming soon.

Hatchie – Dream On – Country Girl. Another bonus track from the deluxe edition of last year’s Giving the World Away.

The Beaches – Everything is Boring. This track from the Toronto quartet reminds me a bit of the Aces mixed with the California pop-punk vibe of artists like Bleached.

MUNA – One that Got Away. This trio dropped their third album last year and are already back with this pop gem, which has a little Human League to the music. (I’m old. Sorry.)

The Japanese House – Sad to Breathe. Another lovely track from Amber Mary Bain, with a balladesque beginning that leads into a soft electronic track, all of which shows off her vocals. I’m very here for singer-songwriters who actually let it rip a little on the microphone.

Bloc Party – High Life. Kele Okereke and company appear to be taking a victory lap on this celebratory track, their first since last year’s Alpha Games, which in turn was some of their best work since “Banquet.”

SENSES – Drifting. The debut album from this British band feels very post-Britpop, and while I wish this song had some more lyrics, the one line they repeat does get stuck in my head.

The DMA’s – Everybody’s Saying Thursday’s the Weekend. This Australian band has had quite the career track already, starting out as an Oasis-like rock band, then veering into electronica on their last album, now trying to find a sort of middle ground that’s more towards their rock origins but with some electronic elements and a more mainstream feel. I don’t think they’ll get back to the heights of “For Now” (which was #76 on my top songs of the 2010s), “Too Soon,” or “Dawning,” but the new album is solid enough.

Teenage Wrist – Sunshine. I don’t know what to call the sort of ‘90s alternative music that appeared in the wake of grunge and leaned more into that genre’s noisier elements à la shoegaze – shoegrunge? Okay, that needs work. I especially think of bands like Hum, who seemed like they were going to be huge after “Stars” became a massive alternative radio hit and captured something about that moment in music as pop’s hold on the commercial market was crumbling. Teenage Wrist have been around for about a decade, and this track has just that sound to it.

Siracuse – Saviour. If you played this for me and told me it was from 1993 from a Mancunian band that opened for the Charlatans, I’d believe you. Anyway, Siracuse is from Cheltenham, and I don’t think they were even born when Some Friendly came out. I’m old, in case you didn’t catch that before.

Rival Sons – Guillotine. Rival Sons do an unapologetic riff on ‘70s classic rock, avoiding the straight derivative nature of knockoffs like Greta van Fleet in favor of a broader approach that, here, sounds more like Audioslave covering Led Zeppelin.

Divide and Dissolve – Blood Quantum. Divide and Dissolve – D&D, I suppose, although that acronym may be spoken for – are new to me but have been recording since at least 2017. They’re an Australian-based doom metal duo comprising a saxophone/guitar player from the US who has Tsalagi and Black ancestry and a drummer of M?ori and white heritage, and those diverse backgrounds are reflected in their song titles and their occasional lyrics.

Godflesh – NERO. I’ll never forget the CMJ review of Godflesh’s seminal debut album Streetcleaner, which read in part, “Godflesh knows what scares you.” That LP, released in 1989, defined the genre of industrial metal and remains a landmark in extreme metal in general, with “Christbait Rising” still their best track. They’re still going, even around a seven-year breakup and now a six-year gap since their last album, with number nine, Purge, due to drop next month. Singer/guitarist Justin Broadrick is back to his death growls, but it’s the grinding gears below the vocals that really shine here.

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→ April 29, 2023
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Stick to baseball, 4/29/23.

I’m writing this from the press box at Alex Bos Stadium in Baton Rouge, so I’ll have something up on Dylan Crews and Paul Skenes on either Sunday or Monday, depending on whether I bounce to another game on Saturday with rain scheduled here. I’ve had two posts up in the last two weeks for subscribers to The Athletic, one a Q&A with our own Nick Groke about Brewers prospects, and a draft blog post covering some Virginia and California prep prospects plus general thoughts on the top 15 or so names in the class.

On my podcast this week, I spoke with Elizabeth McCracken, author of 2022’s The Hero of this Book and 2018’s Bowlaway, about the former of those two books, the craft of writing, and being short. The week prior, I spoke with David Grann about his new book The Wager: A Tale of Shipwreck, Mutiny, and Murder, whichI enjoyed so much I bought a copy for my dad for his birthday last month. You can listen and subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Stitcher, amazon, or wherever you get your podcasts.

And now, the links:

  • A non-binary high school student at Nashville Christian School wanted to wear a suit to their prom, rather than a dress, but the school banned them on dress code grounds. A local business stepped in to hold a prom just for them. Support AB Hillsboro Village if you live in that area.
  • West Texas A&M University faculty scheduled a no-confidence vote in school President Walter Wendler, who banned a student drag show because it conflicted with his personal religious views. The no-confidence vote passed with over 2/3 of the voters supporting it. Wendler is refusing to step down despite the non-binding result. The school faces a lawsuit over the cancellation, and a financial penalty would probably do more to get Wendler out of office than any resolution could.
  • Roadside drug tests aren’t accurate, yet courts have been using them regularly to convict drivers of drug-related offenses. That’s starting to change, slowly.
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→ April 27, 2023
→ By

Living.

Living was the last English-language Oscar nominee on my list of movies to see, since I’m not interested in seeing Avatar and the only other nominees of note I haven’t seen are three of the International Feature picks. Scoring nominations this year for Best Actor (for Bill Nighy, his first) and Best Adapted Screenplay (for Nobel Prize-winning author Kazuo Ishiguro), this adaptation of Akira Kurosawa’s famed Ikiru is a quiet gem of a film, with a tour de force performance from its star and some lovely dialogue supporting him. It’s available to rent on amazon, iTunes, etc. (Full disclosure: I have never seen Ikiru.)

Nighy plays Mr. Williams, a widower and an aging bureaucrat in in the London County Council in the 1950s whose job seems to consist primarily of pushing paper around, especially when it can be pushed to another department on another floor. He never declines a request, merely passing the buck (or quid, I suppose) to someone else. His staff includes the young Miss Harris (Aimee Lee Wood), the lone woman in the group; the eager, brand-new employee Mr. Wakeling (Alex Sharp); and a few other replacement-level men who show no desire whatsoever to challenge the existing system.

This is all upended when Mr. Williams receives a terminal cancer diagnosis, with just months left to live, and finds himself terribly dissatisfied with his life. His son and daughter-in-law show little interest in him as a person, and he doesn’t seem to have any friends. He has no legacy to leave, no one who will truly miss him, so after vanishing from work for several days, he decides to take on one particular project that has been presented to his department and kicked around the building that he can see to fruition: turning a bombed-out building into a playground. His attempts to live a little also bring Miss Harris into the picture, as he takes her to lunch once or twice, and to a film, in an entirely chaste relationship that she can’t understand and that his daughter-in-law, with help from the neighborhood gossip, assumes is something more prurient. The film jumps ahead around the midpoint to show his funeral, after which we see flashbacks to the last few months of his life and the way his family and co-workers respond to his death. Their words and their behavior don’t exactly line up, although this might be the most authentic part of the entire script.

This is Bill Nighy’s film. I’ve always enjoyed his work, and argue just about every year that his story is the only remotely acceptable one in Love Actually, in large part because he treats the film with the reverence it deserves – none. He was outstanding in the British mini-series State of Play, and even charming in the ridiculous The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. This is the role of a lifetime, and he gives a performance to match it. His Mr. Williams is restrained, so constipated in speech that he’s hard to understand, but it makes the moments of actual emotion so much more powerful, even though he’s still actually kind of hard to understand. (Turn the volume up. Just a tip.) Nighy is often at his best in patrician roles, even though that’s not his upbringing, but here he gets a more consequential role in which to deploy that high-born air.

The script takes its time hitting its points, which appear to mirror those of the original film (based, I admit, on my reading of the latter’s Wikipedia entry), including a long, slow buildup to the doctor’s visit that defines the whole movie. That works because the dialogue is so precise – every word seems placed there for a specific purpose, especially those that come out of the mouth of Mr. Williams, yet these words never come across as forced, or out of character. Ishiguro is one of the greatest living prose writers, yet even across his novels, his voice changes to suit the style and genre of the work. Living is his work without sounding like his work, and the result is that Mr. Williams’ grief and revelations and enthusiasm for his one last project come through as genuine.

Nighy became an Oscar nominee at age 72, which Collider says puts him in the top ten for oldest such first-timers, forty-two years after his first credited film role. This is too un-showy of a role to win the honor – I’m surprised he even got the nomination, given how quiet and unpretentious he is as Mr. Williams – but he was certainly better than the fat-suit guy and the Elvis impersonator. Aimee Lee Wood, who is one of the stars of Sex Education, also gives a lovely turn in a smaller role as Miss Harris, serving as the unwitting confidante and comforter to Mr. Williams, while Alex Sharp, who bears more than a small resemblance to Matthew Murphy of the Wombats, is perfect as the wide-eyed innocent who hasn’t yet been ground down by the do-nothing mentality of the office. I’m not sorry to see Ishiguro lose out to Sarah Polley for her adapted screenplay of Women Talking, but both were quite deserving.

For those who are still curious about such things, I’ve got this in my revised top ten for 2022, at #9, just behind Tár and ahead of La Caja and Nope. I still have to see EO, Close, The Quiet Girl, and Return to Seoul, all of which are at least now out as rentals.

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→ April 19, 2023
→ By

A Girl Returned.

Donatella di Pietrantonio’s 2019 novel A Girl Returned (L’Arminuta) was translated into English by Ann Goldstein, the translator for Elena Ferrante’s novels, which seemed like reason enough to read it. That, and it was only about 170 pages, so if it was terrible at least my investment was small. It’s pretty great, though, reminiscent of the better parts of Ferrante’s work in themes and setting.

The title refers to the narrator, who learns at the start of the novel that she’s going to go back to her biological parents, people she doesn’t know at all because she’s been raised since birth by a distant cousin. That cousin was married but childless, so the couple adopted the narrator from her relatively poor parents, who also had a whole mess of children they couldn’t necessarily afford to feed. She gets very little explanation of why she’s going back, but her adoptive mother has taken to her bed and shown signs of illness, so the narrator thinks her mother might have sent her away while recovering, or might even be dying. It’s a shock to her system on multiple levels, as she moves from an affluent life with the people she thought were her real parents to a much less privileged life with people she doesn’t know and who are less educated and cultured than the cousins who reared her. As the novel progresses, we follow her attempts to navigate her new life, including having siblings for the first time, while she also gradually learns more of the truth about both of her families.

There’s a sparseness to A Girl Returned that emphasizes the narrator’s desolation. The prose and the descriptions therein both have the dulled colors of television and films from the 1970s, which also seems to telegraph the hazy nature of every adult’s memories of their teenaged years. Di Pietrantonio captures that feeling of helplessness from the age when you’re old enough to recognize the power of autonomy, but not quite old enough to get it. She’s completely trapped, with brothers who bully her and steal her food, with a mother who appears to have no affection for her, with a father who’s barely there, and with the teenager’s inability to see beyond the next few months. In her case, the light at the end of the tunnel is closer than she realizes, as she’s going to get a chance to move away to attend secondary school before the novel is out, but the combination of the change in circumstances and environments is so dramatic that she can’t see her way out of it.

The twists and turns that come the narrator’s way in this slim novel mean that she never has time to wallow in her misery, at least not on the page, before something else happens, good or bad. It’s all plausible, but the story is condensed enough to keep the novel moving well, even in the most introspective parts where the narrator is pondering how she ended up in this situation.

The result is a coming-of-age story in miniature, taking just a small amount of time, a bit more than a year in the narrator’s life, where a significant number of things ends up happening to her. It’s oddly lovely for a story that’s certainly not a happy one, posing huge questions about identity and family, even as simple as what it really means to be a mother – or what it means to be part of a family. The narrator keeps talking about her two mothers, as if she’s uncertain what to call either of them. The novel offers no answers, simply ending the way a memory does. It’s substantial for a novel so slim, enough to leave you wanting more.

Next up: Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley. I’ve never read it, or seen the movie, in fact.

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→ April 15, 2023
→ By

Stick to baseball, 4/15/23.

I haven’t written in the past week-plus due mostly to getting sick, something that wasn’t COVID-19 but might as well have been for this stupid cough I’ve still got. I did get to a couple of HS games in the Boras Classic in Orange County this week and will write that up after I get to another HS game on Wednesday.

My own podcast returned this week with guest Ozan Varol, author of How to Think Like a Rocket Scientist and the new book Awaken Your Genius. You can listen and subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Stitcher, amazon, or wherever you get your podcasts.

I did appear on two other podcasts this week – Sports Sometimes, with my friend Chris Crawford; and the board game podcast Meeple Town, with Dean Dunning. (Not Dane Dunning. That’s Calcaterra’s bit.)

You can also get more of my words by signing up for my free email newsletter, which went out again on this past Monday.

And now, the links…

  • Longreads first: This New Yorker profile of Pinky Cole and her fast-growing vegan burger chain Slutty Vegan probably isn’t as complimentary as the subject hoped it would be; if anything, it makes it sound like the quality of the food there is entirely secondary to the owner’s ambitions. It also highlights some of the challenges in bringing a broader audience to vegan food, given the latter’s reputation.
  • Texas Rep. Bryan Slaton (guess) introduced a bill to ban kids from attending drag shows and has ranted about LGBTQ+ people “grooming children,” so it was no surprise at all to learn that an intern filed a complaint against him, saying that they had an inappropriate relationship and he served them alcohol even though they were younger than 21. Slaton, who likes to post Bible passages on his Twitter account, also proposed a bill to give property tax cuts to straight, married couples who’d never been divorced. To their credit, two Republican lawmakers in Texas have already called for Slaton to step down.
  • All those conservative commentators rushing to defend Thomas and Crow? Yeah, a lot of them rely on Crow for their paychecks in one way or another, Ilya Shapiro, Jonah Goldberg, David French, and Charles Murray among them. Whatever you may think of the first three, if Charles Murray comes to your defense, you may want to ask him to pipe down.
  • Speaking of Goldberg, I did appreciate his longish essay in his Dispatch newsletter on how the rising generation of Republicans are becoming, in his words, jerks, taking their cues from Trumpism and the old-conservative God complex model of government (government should enact God’s will, and only we know what God’s will is). He argues that it’s not just bad for the Republican party, but bad for these kids as humans.
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→ April 14, 2023
→ By

The Hero of this Book.

Elizabeth McCracken’s Bowlaway was my favorite novel of 2019, an intoxicatingly humanist novel that loved its characters in all their eccentricities. The Hero of this Book is her newest novel, her first since then, a brief but dazzling work of autofiction – a charge the narrator denies – as McCracken uses her gift to grapple with her grief after the death of her mother.

The narrator is McCracken, or it isn’t, or most likely it’s both, and she takes pains to convince us both ways, but regardless, her mother has died, and she has gone to London to revisit some of the places she’d been with her mother, and some new places, as she remembers her mother’s life and deals with her own grief. The narrator’s mother was a fascinating woman in the retelling, coming in just a shade under five feet tall, facing physical difficulties through just about her entire life, marrying a difficult man, and, as far as I can tell, getting her money’s worth out of life even with everything it threw at her. She sounds like a real kick.

The trip through London, which all takes place in a single day within the book, is part framing device but also parallels the peripatetic nature of memory, especially how your memories of a parent may span decades (if everyone involved is so fortunate). The narrator walks around London, Joyce-like, while dancing back and forth between the present and her memories of her mother, the way a painter might move around a canvas without apparent purpose, only for a complete picture to emerge once the painting is nearly finished. Her mother appears to have been an extremely interesting person, a Jewish woman raised in Iowa with a twin sister, often confused for someone from all manner of ‘exotic’ origins due in part to her vantablack hair. The portrait of her mother arises as an accumulation of these details, how she looked, how she walked, things she liked, things of which she didn’t approve. Her mother liked cats. She told the cats she loved them. She almost never told her daughter that. You should already feel the outlines of the character forming just from those three sentences. It’s a clinic on character development – and McCracken, who teaches writing at the University of Texas-Austin, throws in many little notes on how to write better characters, as well as other tips for the would-be author, even after telling readers not to trust any writer who does such a thing. (She also offers this wonderful, pithy quote that I haven’t been able to stop pondering since I read the book: “An unpublished book is an ungrounded wire.”)

McCracken’s own mother hated memoirs as well, and the author had promised her mum that she’d never turn her into a character in one of her books, so what exactly The Hero of this Book is remains an unanswered question. It’s fiction, so it can’t be a memoir; the details of the narrator’s mother adhere so much to the details of the author’s mother that, well, isn’t it a memoir? “A narrative composed from personal experience,” sayeth Merriam-Webster, which, if not the authority on the meanings of words, is certainly an authority, and the one with the best Twitter account. Then this book is a memoir. I prefer the term “autofiction,” although the narrator here not only rejects the term, but salts the soil beneath it with her scorn, saying it sounds like something a robot would write – if only she knew that ChatGPT was coming. Or perhaps she did. It wouldn’t surprise me.

That elusive quality is The Hero of this Book’s strongest feature – it is brief, and yet it manages to confound you in a delightful way. It doesn’t try to bounce between genres, but exists between them, occupying spaces you didn’t realize existed. With McCracken’s lovely prose, which once again shines with wit and heart (“I have no interest in ordinary people, having met so few of them in my life”), it’s a delight from start to finish. I have no idea what’s even in the running for this year’s Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, which will be announced in about three weeks, but I’ll be pulling for this one to win.

Next up: Percival Everett’s Dr. No, itself a Pulitzer candidate and a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle’s Fiction award last month.

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→ April 13, 2023
→ By

The Whale.

I don’t know what The Whale was like on stage, but Darren Aronovsky’s adaptation, which took two Oscars home last month, is excruciating on so many levels that even a strong performance from Brendan Fraser can’t salvage it. When the main character’s daughter screams at her father “Just fucking die already!” she could be speaking for all of us, because at that point there’s still nearly 40 minutes of misery porn to go. It’s manipulative, sermonizing claptrap, and I can’t believe no one saw this film before its release and saw how bad and offensive it was.

Fraser plays Charlie, a morbidly obese man who lives by teaching English and writing classes online while keeping his camera off. His eating disorder is his reaction to the trauma of the death of someone close to him, the details of which are revealed in bits over the course of the movie. The entire film takes place in or just outside of his apartment, where he’s visited by a young missionary named Thomas; Charlie’s nurse and friend Liz; Charlie’s estranged daughter Ellie, whom he hasn’t seen in nine years; and Charlie’s ex-wife Mary. As you might expect from a movie adapted from a play, the dialogue between all of these characters exposes their back stories and gives Charlie some modest depth. We discover why that particular death has sent Charlie into what is essentially suicide by binge-eating, why he and Ellie haven’t seen each other in so long, why his friendship with Liz is both profound and complicated, and some inspirational-poster advice about writing honestly.

What we don’t get, unfortunately, is any real insight into Charlie, or what it means to be capital-f Fat. Charlie’s obesity is handwaved away as the product of trauma, which is facile enough but could work in the service of a better story. Instead, the movie spends too much time pushing that angle while tying it to religion, homophobia, and a fairly naïve interpretation of both grief and eating disorders. This isn’t new, and it isn’t interesting, and if you don’t have either I’m not sure why you make this movie.

Charlie is the only remotely interesting character in the movie, which is important since he’s in almost every minute of it. (I think there are two conversations that do not involve him and take place in a different space.) Even so, there’s little exploration of who he is other than that he’s very sorry. The film isn’t laughing at Charlie, or inviting us to do so; it’s telling us to gawk at him, condescend to him, and maybe, if we’re feeling charitable, pity him. He’s pathetic, a mess, a slob, apologizing to everyone for merely existing. He’s not a bad person because he’s fat; he’s not a bad person, but he’s fat, and that is supposed to make us think less of him. Rather than spend more of the dialogue showing us who he is under all that excess weight, it embarrasses us by embarrassing him: Liz saying “beep beep” when he’s backing up, when he chokes doing routine things like eating or nearly dies laughing or masturbating (a scene the movie really, really did not need), it’s all just fat-shaming of a different sort. You can extrapolate from what we learn to see Charlie is probably an interesting person, an intellectual who loves words, whether in prose or poetry, and who has a lot more empathy for other people than they do for him. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him. The Whale won’t let us.

The ending is a huge tearjerker, ruining one of the very few real emotional moments in the entire movie with an excess of gimmickry and artifice. It got me, even though I know better, because it’s just so manipulative, especially given everything that came before. The Whale hasn’t earned the right to make the audience feel this way.

Fraser is the only saving grace in the film, and while he wouldn’t have been my pick (Colin Farrell and Paul Mescal were slightly ahead for me), he’s worthy of the various Best Actor accolades he received. If he hadn’t been good this might have been the worst movie of 2022. He manages to get somut e range of emotions into the character, and when he’s hurt, ashamed, embarrassed, and so very often sorry, you feel it, probably the only honest emotions that come out of this film. Hong Chau was also nominated for an Oscar, as Best Supporting Actress, but she’s very flat in this movie and often comes across as whiny; she was better in The Menu with a character who was only slightly more multi-dimensional. Sadie Sink gives the second-best performance as Ellie, but it’s an extremely one-note character who might as well be from Flatland. (Fun note: In a flashback scene, Sink’s sister Jacey plays a younger Ellie.) Adrien Morot, Judy Chin, and Annemarie Bradley won the Oscar for Best Makeup and Hairstyling, and I think they were the most deserving of the nominees, although I can see the argument that this was all about a single character rather than an entire cast. The transformation of Fraser into a 600-pound man is completely believable.

Lindy West (of Shrill) eviscerated this movie and its ridiculous view of fat people better than I ever could. I’ll just leave it that this movie was awful, and while I’m very happy for Fraser and love the stories of actors who go from acting in bad mainstream movies to turning in Oscar- or Emmy-worthy performances (Michael Keaton being the best example), he’s not reason enough to suffer through The Whale. I’m too much of a completist to skip it, but you should feel no compulsion to join me.

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→ April 10, 2023
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Holy Spider.

In 2000-01, a seemingly ordinary man in the Iranian holy city of Mashhad began killing sex workers, claiming he was doing his religious duty to “cleanse” the streets of “corrupt women,” with 16 victims before he was caught and executed. Holy Spider takes the story of Saeed Hanaei, a builder, Iran-Iraq war veteran, husband, and father of three who was also a serial killer, and retells it via a fictional journalist character, Arezoo Rahimi, who comes to Mashhad to write about the killings, only to find the authorities disinterested in solving it because they tacitly support what he’s doing. (It’s on Netflix, or you can rent it on Amazon, iTunes, etc..)

Holy Spider is entirely in Farsi, and was Denmark’s submission for this past year’s Academy Award for Best International Film, as the Iranian filmmaker, Ali Abbasi, lives in Copenhagen. Much of what happens with Hanaei is drawn from reality – he lured sex workers, many of whom were drug addicts as well, back to his apartment, gave them a little money, and then would strangle them with their own headscarves. The Iranian press at the time nicknamed him the “Spider Killer,” and some even questioned whether his murders were even a crime, given the victims; wasn’t Hanaei just cleaning up the streets?

Rahimi arrives in Mashhad and immediately finds that the men are being … well, men. The best among them, such as the local reporter whom Hanaei calls sometimes to tell him where he left his latest victim’s body, is benevolently sexist towards her, trying to deter her from investigating the killings at all and constantly telling her not to go to certain areas or run down certain leads because it’s all so dangerous for a lady person. Others interfere more directly, or lie to her, or threaten her, or in one case assault her. As Hanaei keeps killing and the police seem to do nothing, Rahimi begins to investigate more directly, putting herself in Hanaei’s sights, but also creating the best chance for the police to catch him.

Holy Spider tries to be both a thriller and an exploration of cultural misogyny, but isn’t quite deft enough to do both, so once the thriller part is largely resolved with Hanaei’s arrest, the film finally gets to be one thing, and does it well. There’s no real mystery to Holy Spider – even if you didn’t know the original story, the first thing we see is Hanaei committing one of the murders. The film gains some tension from the knowledge that the longer it takes for anyone to figure out what’s going on, the more women will die, and from the unspoken conflict between Rahimi and pretty much everyone she encounters as she tries to cover the story or find the killer herself. Once he’s arrested, after the film’s most intense scene, the focus can be entirely on the way Iranian society, from the police and the religious authorities down to the people they’ve indoctrinated, devalues women. Hanaei even becomes a sort of folk hero to some Iranians. One victim had a child; another was pregnant when killed. Rahimi and her reporter ally even interview one victim’s parents, only to find the mother say she’s glad her daughter is dead rather than still engaging in sex work and using opiates. A woman’s life is simply not worth as much as a man’s to this society. Or this one, for that matter.

The unevenness of Holy Spider crosses into some of the direction and editing as well. The film lingers too long on the murders, coming across as lurid rather than shocking – it does nothing to humanize the victims, each of whom gets a sliver of a character before their on-screen deaths. Focusing on his face during a killing ends up giving him more screen time than the character deserves, time that could have gone to exploring more about the women he was murdering. The ending, after Saeed’s execution, is also very on-the-nose and could have gotten its point, that Saeed’s internalized misogyny and religious zealotry are cultural phenomena rather than just his individual madness, across in less than half the time.

Holy Spider still works, with flaws. It’s buoyed by a great lead performance by the exiled Iranian actress Zahra Amir Ebrahimi (profiled here last fall), who lost her career to the entrenched misogyny of Iranian society; and a strong supporting performance by Mehdi Bajestani as Saeed. Ebrahimi’s performance successfully threads the needle between making Rahimi seem to weak and making her seem implausibly strong or confident; an early scene, where she’s checking into a hotel and they try to turn her away because she’s a woman traveling alone, establishes her toughness while also setting the scene for the various indignities to come. Had the film chosen just to focus on her character, even though she’s entirely fictional, it might have been even stronger in the end.

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→ April 9, 2023
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The Trees.

Percival Everett has been publishing novels since the mid-1980s, but the 66-year-old author has come into much greater critical acclaim with his three most recent works, becoming a Pulitzer finalist for 2021’s Telephone, a Booker finalist for 2022’s The Trees, and, so far, already a finalist for the NBCC Fiction award for Dr. No. I’d never read any of his work before The Trees, which I read on my flight to Phoenix and enjoyed so much that I went to Changing Hands that same day and bought Dr. No. The Trees is a massive fake-out of a novel, starting out as a bawdy, neo-noir sort of detective novel, before taking a sudden turn into more serious and philosophical territory, resolving the question of the crime in the least satisfying way possible – because that was never the point.

A couple of white men are found brutally murdered in the minuscule, backwards town of Money, Mississippi, a town only known for being the site of the murder of Emmett Till. In each case, they’ve been castrated, with their genitalia in the fist of a Black man’s corpse found in the same room. And each time, it’s the same Black man’s corpse. It goes from the morgue to the next murder scene, making a mockery of the local authorities, who did not need the help. Two Black detectives from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigations show up to try to solve the murders, which doesn’t go over well with the white cops in Money or even the victims’ families, although the assistance the two receive from some of the Black residents is only slightly better. The victims turn out to have a surprising connection, and just as the MBI agents and the FBI agent assigned to help them have started to put this together, reports come in of nearly identical crimes in Chicago, Los Angeles, and elsewhere.

The Trees is part dark comedy, part revenge fantasy, part detective story (at least at the start), but it is entirely a story about the weight of history. The systemic racism that pervades the entire history of the United States is reflected in the murders, the authorities, the investigation, almost every aspect of The Trees. It’s in the banter – much of it very, very funny – between the two MBI agents, who absolutely could have stepped out of The Wire. It’s in the diner where Gertrude, a fair-skinned woman who lives in Money, works as a waitress, often serving white people who conveniently forget that she’s Black. It’s practically woven into the pages of the book.

While the novel doesn’t have the same psychological horror element as Get Out, it mines very similar thematic territory, combining it with the sort of over-the-top humor that made Paul Beatty’s The Sellout such a critical success. There’s a seething rage beneath the surface here that Everett holds in check with the various layers of humor, especially with the MBI agents Jim Davis and Ed Morgan, who combine the “old married couple” vibe of McNulty and Bunk with wry commentary on the dangers of their situation as two Black feds in a town that has is still debating whether to acknowledge the advent of Reconstruction. (These two characters could have their own TV series, although doing so would strip out the theme of historical racism that underlies the novel, and I think the novel is unfilmable given its somewhat ambiguous ending.) It’s a delicate balance to strike, and Everett never seems to waver, mixing in humor highbrow and low, even throwing in some ridiculous character names like Cad Fondle or Herberta Hind, to allow him to escalate the extent and violence of the crimes at the narrative’s heart without turning the reader away.

Where The Trees ends may frustrate you if you need a firm conclusion that wraps up all of a novel’s loose ends, as Everett does very little of that. You’ll know who’s responsible for the murders, but beyond that, he offers little resolution and far more doubt than is conventional for any novel, let alone one that at least draws on the traditions of the detective genre. It’s in service of the book’s larger themes of historical racism and the double-edged sword of vengeance. Your mileage may vary, of course. I found myself so drawn in by the humor and the tight prose that I was willing to follow The Trees wherever it led me.

Next up: Elizabeth McCracken’s The Hero of this Book.

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