carpool karaoke: sophie turner and maisie williams

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karaoke

There are those times on the road, stuck in traffic or rolling down free along the highway, that you are passed by a different car, and, while you can’t hear the music, you can see the people in that passing car singing and dancing and you think and you wish, if only for a moment, to be a part of their world, to be in that particular car, with those particular people, sharing that particular joy.

Carpool Karaoke, a skit that began on James Corden’s late night talk show in the US before evolving into Apple’s first mildly successful TV offering, grants its viewers that wish. Through some combination of a surprising number of cameras you are put in the car with a couple of celebrities as they drive and sing and dance and talk to each other and try to remember to watch the road.

I’ve only ever watched one episode of Carpool Karaoke and that one featured Maisie Williams and Sophie Turner, Arya and Sansa Stark, respectively, from Game of Thrones. I remember less about the songs they sang, and more of how they sung them. For example, in their rendition of “Wrecking Ball” by Katy Perry, they seemed to be competing to see who could render the most tragically wrecked performance. Maisie, at one point, looking over at Sophie’s broken, weeping face, almost bursts out laughing because she can see what we can see which is that her friend is a fucking amazing actress.

There is a somewhat hackneyed, late-night, skittishness still draped over the show—a feeling that these bits are in some uncanny valley between improv, scripted, and actual. One bit, in which they visit a Game of Thrones event at South by Southwest, is both cringey and kind of wonderful. Another bit in which they each read sentences and generally carry on in the voices of Ned Stark and Jon Snow is just wonderful. There’s also a bit where they do some kind of magical psychic mind-reading thing. I don’t really know what that was about, but they made me believe however silly and weird it looked that there was something true and sweet and lovely about it. Much like this episode.

I don’t know if I ever need to watch another episode of Carpool Karaoke, but I’m very glad I watched this one.

lambs

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Here we are in a kitchen in Shropshire. Cry of lambs, scuttle of kettle. I’m finishing Kaveh Akbar’s collection of poems, Calling A Wolf A Wolf. The radio is on. You told me once that your family always has the radio on. You said that this is a mark of class. On Radio 4 today, they’re discussing the American Civil Rights movement. Martin and Malcolm and Black Lives Matter. “Racism,” someone says. “We have been on the right side of that argument for five hundred years. The system won’t birth justice anymore than a chicken will birth a duck.”

I finish my book of poems as this story ends.

You sit down across from me. You smile. You drink your cup of coffee. The lambs keep crying.

I think about how farming in one way or another has given birth to all of our favorite metaphors.

I think about how one way or another we are all seeking resurrection.

a review of the royal tenenbaums (2001) in five chapters

 
Hello, readers. Every Saturday I publish a selection from a monthly newsletter I’m writing for Storyological patrons called, CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING. If you’d like to receive this newsletter, and so receive more of my reviews, visit the Storyological Patreon page to sign up. Thank you. That is all.

tenenbaums
 
Chapter 1: This one girl

In Mississippi, I once met this one girl who enjoyed very many different kinds of tea and also peacock feathers. She often had to explain to people that though her face always looked like it was frowning, she was almost always not all that unhappy.

This one time, several months after I first met this girl and not long before I was to leave Oxford forever, she bought me a copy of The LIttle Prince as a goodbye present.

She wrote a note inside letting me know that the secret truth that she had learned during our time together was that I was, in fact, the little prince.

It was one of the better presents.

The other thing about this girl is that she told me once that she never really liked very many movies.

Except for The Royal Tenenbaums, she said. She said that movie was basically a true story about her family.

This is how I first came to watch my first Wes Anderson film, The Royal Tenenbaums.
 
Chapter 2: The Innumerable Failures of Love

The Royal Tenenbaums, Wes Anderson’s third feature-length film after Bottle Rocket and Rushmore, concerns a family of geniuses not all that dissimilar to the Glass family—a brilliant, and occasionally depressive, brood that featured in several of J.D. Salinger’s short stories1. Gene Hackman plays Royal Tenenbaum, the father. Anjelica Huston plays Etheline Tenenbaum, the mother. In an extended prologue, we learn how Royal left the family early on and how Etheline, through a precise and exacting regimen, raised their three children into the very model of modern major child prodigies. In this extended prologue, we also learn that this is the type of film that features an extended prologue.

The Royal Tenenbaums is divided into chapters. Each chapter begins with an insert 2. This insert takes the form of a chapter’s opening page. If one were so inclined, one could read this page and note that it corresponds more or less exactly to the scene we are about to see in the film. Anderson once before said that all of his films, no matter how they begin, end up as fables. The Royal Tenenbaums, though, is the only one that appears to have been literally adapted from an imaginary storybook.

When we encounter the Tenenbaum children later in their lives, it is clear that something has gone terribly wrong. Chas, Richie, and Margot are played, respectively, by Ben Stiller, Luke Wilson, and Gwyneth Paltrow, and each of them, more or less literally, find themselves in an extended montage of feeling entirely at sea. They have all, despite their promising starts, arrived at a point of failure. This is also true of their father, Royal Tenenbaum, who has run out of money and time. Not long after his eviction from his home in a hotel, he learns that Etheline is considering remarrying. This inspires him to spin for Etheline, and his children, a tale of his impending death in the hopes of bringing the family back together. “I’ve got a pretty bad case of cancer,” he says. He doesn’t bother getting too specific. That being, of course, the great giveaway of any lie.

His plan is not entirely unsuccessful.

The Royal Tenenbaums only contains one actual attempt at suicide, but, so far as I can tell, everyone is looking for a way out. Margot, married to a moribund Bill Murray, spends most of her time in the bathroom. Ritchie, broken by his unrequited love for Margot, has run away to sea. Chaz, still traumatized by his wife’s death in a plane crash, runs constant fire drills in his home so that he and his children might maintain the proper preparedness for the inevitable need to escape from one or another of life’s little terrors. There’s also this one falcon called Mordecai. He lives on the roof of the Tenenbaum’s old home. Let me tell you. He almost steals the film. Really. Look at him go. Seriously. Look at that little guy go.

As it happens, each of the Tenenbaum children, in their final retreat from life, will escape back into the relative safety of their childhood home. There they will encounter their mother, who seems to have gotten on just fine without them, and their father, who seems desperate to introduce himself back into their lives through a bewildering combination of apology and reckless abandon.
 
Chapter 3: You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown

One of the dangers of a Wes Anderson film is that the diorama he has so carefully constructed—and which so particularly captures a very particular kind of not exactly unreal life—will collapse under its creator’s suffocating precision.

One of the ways in which The Royal Tenenbaums avoids this trap is through music.

There’s the moment, for example, when Margot, returning home in a cloud of depression, gets accompanied by a sad string of solitary piano notes pulled from the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack. Or the moment not too long after, when Ritchie—convinced of the futility of his love and his life—attempts suicide in the bathroom. Anderson plays overs this scene an Elliot Smith song called, “Needle in the Hay.” It’s worth noting, however appropriate the song may at first have seemed, it now seems much too appropriate. Elliot Smith committed suicide in 2003, two years after the release of this film. Somehow this accidental echo, this collision of reality and artifice, suits the film even as it darkens it.
 
Chapter 4: Mordecai Comes Home

Something you need to understand about Wes Anderson’s films is that they always function as a kind of window on the endless tug-of-war between the forces of order and chaos. Here, in one corner, we have Etheline, who shows her love for her children by carefully scheduling their lives, and, in the other corner, we have Royal, who demonstrates his love by, seemingly at random, causing his children great harm. At one point, while in the midst of playing war with his children, he turns on the son on whose side he was meant to be fighting. “We’re on the same team!” a young Chas screams. “Hahahaha,” says Royal.

Ritchie keeps a pet falcon on the roof. This is the aforementioned Mordecai. Mordecai lives in a small cage and wears a tiny leather helmet. At one point, Ritchie sets Mordecai free and Anderson follows him on his flight across the city. This may be the first and only time in any Wes Anderson film that you will see a shot lose its focus or fail to frame its subject precisely. Mordecai soars and turns among the city’s towering brownstones, and it is all Anderson can do just to keep up with the little guy. We feel such a rush of freedom in these scenes, and we understand that this feeling, exactly this feeling, is what the film and its many children have been searching for this whole time. Everyone here has tried, in one way or another, to fly the coop. And they have all met some trauma in the world that has brought them back home again, afraid of the world and its many wild terrors. Just as Mordecai, later in the film, returns home, his feathers turned white from some fright he has suffered out there in the big, bad world.
 
Chapter 5: Go Garbage Truck, Go!

The Royal Tenenbaums I believe, along with Grand Budapest Hotel, remains my favorite of Anderson’s films. I think it has something to do with the way it never quite finds the balance its seeking. Its characters, despite reaffirming the endless well of love they share for each other, never quite find themselves on solid ground. This is because, of course, love doesn’t really make these characters safe. As Margot says, at one point, to Ritchie, “I think we’re just gonna to have to be secretly in love with each other and leave it at that.”

For much of this film, Royal spends his time trying to wake his children up from the doldrums which have so thoroughly engulfed them. He begins doing this because he wants their love as a treasure, I think, with which to win back the affections of Etheline. Or, perhaps, to be both more precise and vague, to win back some long vanished idea of the man he imagined himself to be.

There is no answer to the questions Anderson poses in this film. There is no way to be both fully alive and entirely safe from harm. There is no way to fly without risking a crash back to earth. I think of Chas, early in this film, hustling his children out of bed, of the comfort of their home, in preparation for some imagined terror. And then I think of Chas at the end of this film, with his wildcat of a father and his children by his side, the bunch of them pilfering a ride on the back of a garbage truck. You see in the way they swing loose, in the way the wind pulls at their hair, that they have found if not an answer to the questions of their lives, at least some kind of peace with the inevitability of that failure. I think of them there holding on tight and soaring a few feet off the ground and I smile that life, and Wes, has afforded them such a moment of breathless joy.
 
 

  1. Here is a fun fact. Are you ready? One of these characters goes by the name, Beatrice “Boo Boo” Glass Tannenbaum, and she is described at one point as “seafaring.”
  2. a still image inserted into the otherwise continuous flow of the film

the perks of being a wallflower (stephen chbosky, 2012)

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A familiar, if gut-wrenching and ultimately refreshing, take on the trials and tribulations and perks of being a sensitive teenage soul in a world that often seems so very especially well designed to punish those it deems too sensitive to its cruelty and its beauty. We’re in high school again. There are the requisite bullies. And the requisite cameo appearances of young adult literature’s greatest hits: Cathcher in the Rye, To Kill A Mockingbird, etc. Paul Rudd appears as the friendly English teacher. It’s a solid choice.

I’m happy to say that, before too long, the film drifts away from the familiar, or perhaps it just drifts deeper into it. This film doesn’t force its characters into standard narratives. It doesn’t accept the stories so often told. Of misfits and jocks and bullies and parents. It doesn’t accept what the world believes about love. Not because it doesn’t believe in love. But because it wants to finds its own path towards understanding what it means that so many of us, for so many reasons, only ever learn to accept the love we think we deserve.

It stars Logan Lerman as Charlie, Ezra Miller as his friend Patrick, and a luminous Emma Watson as Sam. It is written and directed by Stephen Chbosky, who literally wrote the book on the perks of being a wallflower. I don’t know of that many other examples of authors writing and directing the film adaptations of their work. Considering the effort involved in translating what works in prose to what works on film, it makes the success of this film all the more magnificent.

In lesser films, I think, there might have been a revenge plot against the bullies. There might have been a refusal to let go of the narrative impetus to win-the-love-of-the-girl-or-boy-or-whatever. Though Charlie and Sam kiss, more than once, that’s not the end of this film, because it was never the point. The point is Charlie learning to wrestle with his own pain and in so doing, perhaps, learning how to not be overwhelmed by the pain of others.

There is a scene, at one point, where Charlie explodes in violence. He asks, later, “You’re not scared of me?” And we are, a little bit. And Sam is, as well. But she doesn’t say so. Because she’s not, really. And neither are we. No more than we are scared of anyone. We all have the capacity to betray each other. We all have our reasons. A lesser film might not accept the ways we betray each other, and so it would not know what it really means to learn to love and be loved in return.

In the end, Charlie visits a doctor. Things got bad. But his friends visit. His sister and brother visit. Charlie says he doesn’t know how to deal with pain. But he’s learning. There isn’t really an answer. There can’t be. But there is hope. And there is driving down a dark tunnel with your friends singing along with David Bowie. There are perks, you see, to being.

That truth–that we accept the love we think we deserve–spoken by Charlie at one point, is as true of moviegoers as it is true of anyone. A lot of people, I suspect, accept that movie blockbusters are supposed to be dumb and that romantic comedies are supposed to, in one way or other, uphold the status quo. They’re commercial enterprises after all. What can you expect? I’ve always thought this spoke more about the filmgoer than it did the films to which they went. Not because Hollywood blockbusters aren’t often dumb, or romantic comedies not often so very quo, but because I don’t think we should ever stop being disappointed in the world. Disappointment is a prerequisite for wonder.

 

 

Hello, readers. Every Saturday I publish a selection from a monthly newsletter I’m writing for Storyological patrons called, CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING. If you’d like to receive this newsletter, and so receive more of my reviews, visit the Storyological Patreon page to sign up. Thank you. That is all.

 

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in which a review of my kitchen table in the context of free will. or possibly the other way around.

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I was looking at my kitchen table a little while ago, and it got me to thinking about free will.

When I look at my kitchen table, sometimes it occurs to me that it doesn’t really exist. What I see as a kitchen table is really just a collection of various sorts of stuff which itself is surrounded by various sorts of nothing. Mostly, there’s just nothing.

When you think about it, this is true of most things.

Free will, for example.

It’s very possible that there’s no such thing. It’s very possible that, in the same way my kitchen table is not really as solid as I perceive, the concept of free will might well be less solid than we imagine. It’s very possible that only at our scale of reality, in the world of our perceptions, can we imagine that such concepts as kitchen tables and free wills exist.

Some people find this distressing. They think that if a study reveals that free will doesn’t exist that it will mean free will doesn’t exist. It scares them to think of a world in which there is no choice. But that’s not what it would mean if we discovered free will doesn’t exist. Anymore than it would mean that kitchen tables don’t exist. Science proved the non-existence of kitchen tables ages ago but, for the most part, the world carries on pretty much the same as it always has. At least when it comes to kitchen tables.

Whatever happens, I imagine that it’s probably best to go along believing in the notion of free will in the same way that I believe in my kitchen table. Just because something doesn’t make sense in one reality, doesn’t mean it becomes meaningless across all realities. That’s not how reality works. A lot of the truths we cling to are only true from a certain point of view.

If tomorrow I adopted the point of view that my kitchen table didn’t exist, for example, then I would be faced with the decision of where to put my coffee.

 

Hello, readers. Every Saturday I publish a selection from a monthly newsletter I’m writing for Storyological patrons called, CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING. If you’d like to receive this newsletter, and so receive more of my reviews, visit the Storyological Patreon page to sign up. Thank you. That is all.

 

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the last jedi, a commentary track by director rian johnson

Star Wars The Last Jedi GIF by Star Wars-source

There’s this one myth. It is the myth of the auteur. This is how it goes. When it comes to film, it is the director that matters above all. It is a singular artist with a singular vision which determines the success, or failure, of the thing. This myth emerged in the 50s and 60s as part of the French New Wave led by such as Godard and Truffaut. It was in response to other modes of thinking about film, such as that they were studio or star-driven. It is, as most myths are, not entirely untrue. Directors matter a lot. But, so do studios and actors and so much else. It is also, as far as myths go, not all that different from any of the great man myths, which are, really, not all that different from any of the chosen one myths. Which brings me around to Star Wars.

Star Wars The Last Jedi GIF by Star Wars-source-3

Just as The Last Jedi affirms, even as it dismantles, certain heroic myths, director Rian Johnson’s commentary for The Last Jedi, affirms, even as it dismantles, the myth of the auteur. Mostly because, for the most part, Rian spends the entirety of the commentary talking about other people. The lines Carrie Fisher and Benicio del Toro came up with. The advice from editors as to the importance of grabbing at least one cutaway to BB-8 in every scene. The laugh from Kathleen Kennedy that told him everything he needed to know about the Porgs. The instructions on directing Yoda’s entrance passed on to him by Frank Oz. The conversations he had early on, in walks along the beach, with a production designer about the big, personal questions a film like this could address. It’s only a very few times, and mostly near the very end—possibly, actually, the very last scene—that Johnson reveals something of what this film, and the legend of Luke Skywalker, meant to him. And by de-centering himself, you might think he’s unmything the myth of the auteur except, well, here’s the thing.

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The Last Jedi begins with a scene of heroism from an unexpected place, and it ends with the possibility of heroism arising from all corners of the galaxy. It is a film about making room for all kinds of heroes from all kinds of places. It is a film that says there is no chosen one. It is a film that embraces the idea that the hero’s myth belongs to everyone. And seeing the same sort of generosity in Rian’s commentary kind of confirms how much his vision—one of expanding definitions of heroism and heroes—defines this film. He affirms the myth of the auteur by affirming his vision of making room for the vision of others. Just like how Luke, at the end of Last Jedi, affirms his own legend by making room for, and inspiring, a whole new generation fo heroes.

I love this film so much.

 

Hello, readers. Every Saturday I publish a selection from a monthly newsletter I’m writing for Storyological patrons called, CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING. If you’d like to receive this newsletter, and so receive more of my reviews, visit the Storyological Patreon page to sign up. Thank you. That is all.

 

 

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in the aeroplane over the sea (neutral milk hotel, 1998)

in aeroplane

This is one of those songs I imagine playing at my funeral. The other is “Chicago” by Sufjan Stevens.

This song might also be my answer to what song is playing when I’m at my happiest1. Well. This or the main title of Star Wars. Come to think of it, the main title of Star Wars would be a pretty good one for my funeral, too. That music more or less played me into the world. Why not out of it, as well?

“In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” is a love song unstuck in time. Past, present, and future exist all at once. Every verse occurs in the present tense, no matter where in the timeline of love we might imagine ourselves to be. There is only now, and so much of everything that it breaks your heart. Here’s how the song begins: “What a beautiful face/I have found in this place/That is circling all round the sun/What a beautiful dream/That could flash on the screen/In a blink of an eye and be gone from me.”

The song consists of five verses. Each verse learns from the one that came before it. The second verse imagines that knowing this can’t last forever means we must “count everything beautiful thing we see.” The third verse imagines counting every beautiful thing: light, music, trees. In the fourth verse, love is lost to the past, though we remain in the present. “But now we keep where we don’t know/All secrets sleep in winter clothes/With one you loved so long ago.” In the fifth verse, the song ends back at the beginning, repeating the opening three lines before coming to rest in the wonder of having loved and lost and discovered how much love remains with you still.

For the most part, there are only four chords—G, Em, C, and D—played in that order, in 6/8 time, over and over, for nearly the entire length of the song2. There is only one moment in the song where this changes. The chords shift in the fourth verse to a different progression—Em, C, G, D—and each chord is held for twice as long. It’s almost as if the song, having been trapped in its endless circles, finally finds a way to soar, and in soaring, it doesn’t want to let go. Because of the extended chords, we imagine, along with the song, that it might last forever. That this soaring occurs in the memory of all that’s been lost perhaps tells us something about the song. Or about ourselves. I’m not sure which. Probably it’s both. When we really understand something—whether it’s a song or a book or a film or a person—we usually understand something more of ourselves, as well.

The fourth verse doesn’t last forever, of course. Nothing does. No matter how beautiful it sounds. In the fifth verse, when we return to the old chord progression, when we return to the circling, something of the soaring feeling remains. The song has learned something, I think. And so have we. That it doesn’t last forever is part of what makes it all so goddamn beautiful. It doesn’t hurt any less to understand this. I’m not sure what it does, really. But it’s that understanding, I think, that propels the song to its final line, to its final perfect wonder: “How strange it is to be anything at all.”

 

Hello, readers. Every Saturday I publish a selection from a monthly newsletter I’m writing for Storyological patrons called, CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING. If you’d like to receive this newsletter, and so receive more of my reviews, visit the Storyological Patreon page to sign up. Thank you. That is all.

 

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  1. Kathy Nightingale: What’s so good about sad?
    Sally Sparrow: It’s happy for deep people.
  2. Note, these chords I’m talking about come from a version I’ve learned to play on ukulele. They are possibly not the same as actually played in the song. I don’t really know.