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

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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)


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.



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


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.


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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.


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.


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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.”


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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.

marie antoinette (dir. sofia coppola, 2006)



Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette is in such bad taste. It’s perfect. The first time I saw it, I discounted it as a shallow indulgence in style and soft-focus. What a fool I was. To be sure, many people agreed with me. And many, I suppose, still do. But, here’s the thing. Marie Antoinette, love it or hate it, is a masterpiece. It is a vision fully realized. Here are four reasons.

reason one

Film is, first and foremost, a sensual experience, not all that different from a sunrise or a night of fireworks. Marie Antoinette contains scenes of both and more besides! We trundle through glimmering forests in lavender carriages. We race across golden green fields, our hands waving free. We feast upon colorful towers of macarons. We thrill to the mysterious invitation of a fan unfurled across rosy cheeks. Coppola has worked with Kirsten Dunst before, in Virgin Suicides, and she would work with her again later, in The Beguiled, but it’s here, in Marie Antoinette, that she may have captured best the beauty and spirit of her muse. Dunst plays the soon-to-be beheaded queen with a mix of naiveté, recklessness, and a fragile, if altogether willful, joy. Coppola frames her in moments sometime rigid and sometimes loose, sometimes formal and sometimes intimate. We see Antoinette with her hair piled high, her waist cinched tight, her décolletage exquisitely décollated, and we see her also in bed, in despair and wonder, in loneliness and anticipation, sometimes buried under blankets and sometimes all bare shoulders and ruddy legs, giggling at the prospect of some unfettered joy. We know what happens to her in the end, and Coppola knows her job here isn’t to remind us of that fact at every turn. Her job is only to remind us that all this beauty, as much as it might be decadent and escapist and rapturous, also serves as a prison, and it is no less beautiful because of that. That it is so beautiful, in fact, only makes it hurt all the more.

reason two

There are three moments in this film where Kirsten Dunst breaks the sacred etiquette of film and stares straight at the camera and into the eyes of the viewer. The first time happens right at the start, in an opening scene of Antoinette in her home in Austria. She’s in a chair, in repose, among blues and pinks, cakes and plushed velvet. At one side of the screen, a maid in black-and-white, fits on her mistress a shoe. Dunst licks a bit of frosting from her fingers, and then she catches our eye and gives a slight tilt of her head as if to say, “What are you looking at?”

The second comes in her exchange from Austria to France. She is to be married off to the young Dauphin, Louis, so as to cement the alliance between their two countries. We have arrived at this moment after a long, beautifully dull carriage ride. Antoinette approaches the tent constructed across the border. Once inside, they strip away her dog. And then her rings. Her necklace. Her hat. Her shoes. Her socks. They slip off her dress and her underclothes. It is traditional, she is told, for a bride to leave everything behind. Coppola films this scene from behind, from the point of view of Austria. She cuts next to a shot from the French side. Antoinette walks out of the tent, wearing her new costume, right into the center of the frame. The shot is almost Wes Anderson-esque in its suffocating precision, and so it centers us in Antoinette’s experience of being crushed from all sides into a new shape. This shot should do away with the notion that Coppola prefers soft filters and gauzy ephemerality because it’s all she knows how to do. Here she shows how hard and precise she can be when it appeals to her and here it appeals to her because Antoinette has walked out of her childhood and into an unforgiving adult world in which, above all else, she will be put on display. Dunst stares at us in this moment, dead-eyed and uncertain, as if to say, “Well. Here I am. Is this what you want?” Everything of the film is here in this one shot. It’s magnificent.

The third moment occurs after the birth of a child not belonging to Marie Antoinette. We have seen, at this point, many examples of Louis’ indifferent, if not simply ineffectual, affections. And we have seen Antoinette greeted, each morning, by the crowd of onlookers that gather at the foot of her bed. We have heard the whispers that follow her as to her failure to produce an heir. We have read the letters from her mother lamenting the same. And we have just seen Dunst act the hell out of a scene in which she allows only her joy, and none of her sadness, to greet the happy couple and their new baby. But now we are alone with her in her bedroom, and we watch her crumple against the door and proceed to cry. It is a private moment, for a woman allowed no privacy. But, of course, we are there, too. And she finds our gaze and holds it. There is no sarcasm here. No condescension. There is something less and more. There is a woman and she is looking at us. Coppola wants us to be unsettled. And she wants us to never forget that Antoinette, while so often trapped in the gazes of others, is never without her own gaze.

reason three

Coppola scores this film, for the most part, with a procession of 80s bands like The Cure, New Order, Aphex Twin, and Siouxsie and the Banshees. In a film where so much care and expense has been paid in order to achieve such a period-perfect look—all those hats! every scene shot on location in France, in Versaille, or Chantilly, and so on—why deign to wake us from this dream? Why take us out of the moment? Why shatter the verisimilitude? I think because, as in those moments when Dunst stares out at us, the inclusion of dated pop electrifies these proceedings. They provide a shock of life, of rules broken, for good or ill. And, so, their presence helps ensure that the spirit of Antoinette shines out among the aforementioned hats and palatial beauties. Whatever else she is, or was, Antoinette is a girl whose heart, however excessive in its desire and however chained by its place in history, is her own. As those meta moments of wall breaking remind us that her gaze is her own, the soundtrack reminds us that her emotions are her own, as well.

As well, there is, I think, the fact that Coppola wants us to imagine Antoinette, herself, as a kind of 1980s pop star, and to imagine the time of her reign in France, as a gilded mirror held up to that decade, what with all its excess of greed and lust and the inevitable crash to come. And so we have this Antoinette caught in the prison of her own privilege. She is always on display. She is always the center of gossip. She is beloved and hated as the emblem of a regime she had no part in building. She is Madonna. Not the holy mother, but the wicked pop star. She is a symbol, for some, of all that’s wrong in society, and for others, for all that’s beautiful and empowering. In one way or another all of Coppola’s films deal with women trapped in the gaze of others, who nonetheless posses a gaze and beauty all their own. So it is here, too. Antoinette is never wicked nor role model. She is, for better and worse, only herself.

reason four

In The Beguiled, as here, we have a group of people seemingly cut off, and protected, from history. In one, a seminary of girls hidden by the Virginia woods from The Civil War. In the other, a queen and her court sheltered away in palaces and retreats from the mob calling for their heads. In both, the narrative turns on how the world that shelters them also imprisons them, and in some cases, dooms them. Marie Antoinette, in this film, only visits Paris but once. She is a palace girl. She is a diva out of necessity. What else can she do? She could speak out, of course. She could empathize with the mob. But who has ever empathized with her? Who has ever taught her by example? None. How could she look at a mob of people and not just see another mass of humanity, like all the others, looking at her and seeing whatever they want to see? Another set of eyes, for her, only means another set of demands. Some may accuse Coppola, I think, of trying to have her cake and eat it, too, calling on us to care for a woman of privilege, and to bask with her in the decadent and destructive nature of the beauty of her world, while only cursorily calling it all into question. But I don’t think so. Coppola doesn’t let Antoinette off the hook. Nor does she let us off the hook. She simply stages the hook in the wings. She trusts that we can see it for ourselves, even if we never see it. She trusts that, at the end, as the carriage takes Antoinette to her fate, we see what we must. A girl, with her face against a window, watching the world fall away. “Admiring the view?” her husband asks. “No,” she says. “I’m just saying goodbye.”


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otis redding: live in london and paris (2008)

My dad owned a lot of 8-track and cassette tapes. He loved music. Sometimes he played his favorite songs on our piano. He didn’t need the sheet music. He just played them by ear. I didn’t realize this was special as a kid. It was just something my dad could do.

When I was seven or eight, he passed along a cassette to me called Cruisin’ Classics. It had songs on it by the Supremes and Jackie Gleason and Marvin Gaye. I fell asleep listening to it all the time. There was a time in my life I couldn’t go to sleep without listening to music. It’s possible that falling asleep to that cassette, and all the others like it that my dad passed along to me, led directly to my dreams of one day falling in love with someone so much that it broke my heart.

One of my dad’s favorite songs I never remember him playing on the piano. I don’t remember ever hearing it on a cassette tape, either. I remember him whistling it all the time, though. And I remember those happy moments when he and I would be driving somewhere, and it would come on the radio and we would sing along to it. The song was Otis Redding’s “(Sittin On) The Dock of the Bay.” I can hear my dad whistling it whenever I think about it. Sometimes if I listen really hard, I can hear us singing, too. The whistling is louder, though. I don’t know why that is.

When he died, my sister and I found all kinds of music on my dad’s computer. Stuff I never really knew he loved. Songs like “Hurt” by Timi Yuro. “At Seventeen” by Janis Ian. So much ABBA. It turned out my dad had the heart of a fourteen-year-old girl. I felt closer to him that day than I had in a long time. I don’t know why death sometimes brings people to life the way it does, but it does. So it goes.

There was a lot of music from the film Easy Ryder on his computer, too. The Byrds did that album. There’s a song on it called “The Ballad of the Easy Ryder,” and we chose it to play at his funeral.

Here’s how part of that one goes:

The river flows
It flows to the sea
Wherever that river goes
That’s where I want to be
Flow river flow
Let your waters wash down
Take me from this road
To some other town

Go river go
Past the shaded tree
Flow river, flow
Flow to the sea
Flow to the sea

It wasn’t until I started writing this that I realized the song we picked for his funeral took me and my dad back to sitting in his truck, driving down some open road, dreaming about sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away. The two of us together at the edge of the world. Just wasting time.

I started writing and thinking about all of this when I listened to Otis Redding: Live in London and Paris. “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” isn’t even on this album.

Ghosts live in the strangest places.


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.




captain america: winter soldier (dir. anthony and joe russo, 2014) + chloe bennett




Captain America: Winter Soldier took me by surprise. I was not expecting the closing credits to be my favorite part.

chloe bennet lip syncs to hamilton on instagram

Chloe Bennet, one of the stars of the television show Agents of Shield, posted this post in which she, and co-star, Jeff Ward, lip-sync to the song “Satisfied” from Hamilton. It is amazing. You should watch it. That is all.

chloe singing with parrot

I enjoyed this video of Chloe Bennett singing with a parrot a lot. More than is possibly normal. It is possible I have a crush on Chloe Bennett. It is also possible that watching the video I was in love with imagining Chloe looking at this parrot shaking its head and coming up with the idea of singing along with it. I tend to fall in love as much with ideas as I do with people. Sometimes, in fact, I fall more in love with the idea of people, or things, than with the people or things themselves. Most of my life has been spent correcting for this behavior by listening to other people and things and trying to understand them for who and what they truly are.


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.



p.s. Here’s a link to David Mack’s blog in which more gifs of those Winter Soldier titles. He was the illustrator and concept art and, together with Sarofsky, put together these amazing titles.

sometimes things

Hello, readers.

Sometimes I post things. This is one of those times. Here are two things.

Thing one.

I have a new story in Bourbon Penn 15 (available now in e-book or paperbook) called SOMETIMES THINGS ARE TRUE.

If you’re a fan of ninjas, zombies, werewolves, pirates, or epiphanies in which a character stares up at the stars and realizes some truth about life, then this is the story for you. Also there’s a killer unicorn.

You can read a fairly long sample of the story here.

Here’s a fairly short sample.

“It’s not true what they say about werewolves, you know?” Lucy said to Jack. “You can’t become a werewolf by kissing. That’s just a myth. You can’t get it from sex either, unless it’s a very particular kind of sex. There are probably a few days out of the month when you’d probably rather not kiss one, or have sex, I guess. Sometimes things are true.”
“Am I even needed in this conversation?” Jack said.
“I enjoy listening to you listen,” Lucy said. “The sound of your breathing is very comforting.”

Thing two.

I’ve just sent out the February edition of CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING, a monthly newsletter for Storyological patrons.

In February, I watched and reviewed: seventeen films, four television shows, three podcasts, two soundtracks, a book, a handful of short stories, Natalie Portman’s career (as inspired by her rapping on SNL), a play starring Carey Mulligan, a Bon Iver concert, a quote from John Keats, and two Instagram videos posted by Chloe Bennett, star of Marvel’s: Agents of Shield.

I include a handy, clickable list at the start of the newsletter. This is a picture of that clickable list. Don’t try to click on it. It won’t work. I promise.

Here is a snippet of the introduction I wrote for the newsletter:

I’ve written these reviews, more or less, however the fancy took me. Some of them are silly. Some serious. My favorite manage to be both. My highlights for this month include: The End of the Fxxxing World, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Pride and PrejudiceLady Bird, Call Me By Your Name, Chloe Bennett, and Bon Iver. These might not be your highlights. You’ll have to read them all to find out. The reviews in which I get the most personal are probably: Atonement, Phenomena, and Bon Iver.
Maybe don’t try to read it all at once. Maybe save this email in a special folder. Or print it out, even. Stick it on your writing or reading desk. Fold it up and put it in your notebook. Carry it close to your heart. That sort of thing.
It’s up to you, really. So many things are.

I’ll be posting samples from this newsletter every Saturday. Here’s a review of Lady Bird I posted a bit ago.

I’m having a lot of fun with this newsletter. I hope you do, too. Emma seems happy with it. ^-^

Happy Wednesday, readers.


lady bird (dir. greta gerwig, 2017)

ladybird (a24)

What a generous and attentive film. There are stories everywhere you look. It’s kind of like Star Wars in that way. Every corner of the Lady Bird galaxy teems with life. But it never feels crowded. For all the half-dozen or more characters on display here—each interesting enough, really, to star in their own film—Greta Gerwig, in her solo directorial debut, manages without fail to give them enough room to breathe. Sometimes it’s an extra scene here or there. Sometimes an extra line, or wink, or smile. Perhaps an eye roll. Sometimes it’s the exact right amount of nothing as one sometimes finds in an empty parking lot.

This is Sacramento, at the turn of the millennium. Lady Bird is a catholic school girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Her parents try their best as parents so often do. Lady Bird feels, as many children often do, that whatever it is their parents are trying, it’s not working. Lady Bird has a friend or two. One of them is the best. She finds a boyfriend. They tell stories to each other about the stars. She tries her hand at song and dance. Her best friend does better. Her boyfriend does best. Lady Bird isn’t unhappy with her life. But, she isn’t happy either. If you asked her, I think she would probably say that her life, her real life, hasn’t started yet. I think she’s trying her best to get things going, though.

I first saw Saoirse Ronan in Atonement, though I didn’t know it at the time. I saw her again in Grand Budapest Hotel. And then again in Brooklyn . Also, Hannah. Here she is Lady Bird. Every time I see her it feels like the first time. I think this is a magic not everyone possesses. Imagine living every day as though it was not the last day of your life, but the first. Imagine possessing such brave wonder.

We begin our journey with Lady Bird waking up next to her mom. They are in a hotel bed. They are as close as two people can be without falling into each other. Later, Lady Bird’s mom drives her home. Or tries to. Lady Bird jumps out along the way. Much later, Lady Bird learns to drive herself. And when she drives around Sacramento, we see an echo of this earlier drive. And in that echo, echoes of all the times her mom drove her anywhere. This is cinema as it can be. As poetry. All rhythm and rhyme. The world glimpsed by a girl through the windows of her mom’s car. The memory of home.

Gerwig, through the glimpses she gives into the lives of all of her characters, allows us a similar gift. We watch them grow into themselves. We watch as they, and we, come to see them for who they truly are. This is a film that rewards attention. This is a film with which you fall deeper in love the more you think about all that you have seen. I suspect this is one of those films, like The Shawshank Redemption, which will grow only more beloved with time.

About two-thirds of the way through the film, after Lady Bird has discovered new kinds of friends and new kinds of pain, after she and her mom have fallen out again, as they seem to keep doing, one of the more awesome nuns at the school tells Lady Bird something that she needs to know. She tells her that maybe attention is a form of love. This strikes me as one of the harder truths to learn and to accept. People are always telling us to pay attention. As though it should cost us something to see things, and people, as they truly are. I don’t know that we always consider the costs, but I think this is a cost most of us want to be willing to pay. I suspect, though, that for many children, as with Lady Bird, it is a cost they don’t always want to bear.

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.