It’s hard to review this book without mentioning its structure, including what happens in the story. I don’t think it’s the kind of book that hinges on plot points, but I’ll still put a spoiler warning here.
The prose is structured in short fragments, usually no longer than a few sentences each. It’s reminiscent of Dept. of Speculation and Weather by Jenny Offill, both of which I enjoyed. There are no real “scenes,” just glimpses into the mind of the main character, an unnamed woman who spends a lot of time on the Internet, and becomes famous for a single tweet. Ultimately, I think I prefer Lockwood’s novel to Offill’s, because of how the style changes meaning over the course of the book.
For the first half of this book, the style obviously evokes the flood of unrelated content that you experience when scrolling through social media. It’s filled with references to memes and jokes, and would probably not even make sense for the first dozen or so pages if you hadn’t read the jacket copy.
But then, in the second half, the book shifts focus to a medical emergency involving the protagonist’s infant niece. The protagonist is no longer constantly online, but the style remains fragmentary, taking on a lyrical quality. I came to appreciate that even without the distraction of the Internet, the mind still works this way: when you’re supposedly only thinking about one thing—in this case, love towards an ailing child—you still jump from idea to idea, emotion to emotion. I found it very powerful, and I brought close to tears by many passages.
The Andy Serkis Planet of the Apes trilogy, especially the middle entry, are some of my favourite movies ever. What the new sequel retains is the utter believability of the special effects. You really believe that you’re watching living apes, and that they are persons with thoughts and feelings.
I loved the first half of the film, which establishes the culture of the future ape society, in through the main character Noa, and then the studies of a monk-like ape named Raka. If the film had stuck with the “buddy search quest” plotline, where the two of them try to find Noa’s missing clan, this would have been a home run. Unfortunately, the film loses steam for me when it introduces a triangular conflict involving a power-hungry self-proclaimed king ape, and a mysterious human girl. The focus shifts to a big action climax instead of fleshing out the motivations of the antagonist(s), and made me miss the moral complexity of the original trilogy.
According to my records, I’ve watched this film four times before this—twice in the theatre, as I recall—but not since 2011. But it feels like I’ve watched it many more times than that. It’s one of those movies where I can anticipate moments just before they happen: I can hear a line of dialogue before it’s spoken; I can see the framing of a shot before it’s cut to; I could even imitate the gestures of the actors before they moved, if I were the kind of person to fidget during movies.
I’m not going to say much more about the movie itself, other than that it holds up and remains one of my favourites. Rather, I’ll use this as an opportunity to reflect on how my media-consumption habits have changed. Inglourious Basterds came out in a time before streaming services and YouTube created this feeling that I always have something new to watch. Back then, I used to rewatch movies and shows (see also: Curb Your Enthusiasm) over and over again. Even if not the whole thing, I would pick out favourite scenes to revisit; for example, the best scene of this film, the chapter in the bar featuring M. Fassbender and D. Kruger.
I’m going to sound like a grumpy old man when I say this but it goes to show that less is more: less choice means that you can spend more time on the movies that you really love, and it’s through repeated viewings that your favourites becomes your favourites.
The setup of this novel reminded me of Past Lives: the life of a married couple is disrupted by a visitor from one of the partners’ past.
From the start, I found the couple’s behaviour to be not entirely believable: why was one partner so secretive about her past, and why was her wife so jealous about it? I kept thinking that an honest, open conversation would have diffused all of the tension between them. But, through a somewhat repetitive and long-winded exploration of their thoughts and memories, I came to a reluctant understanding: this book is a portrait of a failing relationship.
I commend the novel for presenting a perspective that I don’t see often: that of a queer person living openly in a same-sex relationship, while at the same time staying closeted about her bisexuality.
However, there were enough flaws in the story that I can’t say I recommend it. In particular, there are a couple of “plot twists” near the end that seem to serve no purpose other than to underscore a point that was already clear, and then to punish the main character. There’s also an extended exposition about the plight of Ugandan Indians under Idi Amin, and how it compares with the Syrian refugee crisis. It’s a bit discomfiting to measure traumas against each other, and I wasn’t sure what the author was getting at.
I picked up this book because I, like many others, feel like I need to reduce my phone usage. It’s a constant distraction and I hate it when I find myself scrolling through some feed, not looking for anything in particular.
Newport does a good job explicitly explaining what I implicitly knew was true: there’s value in solitude and letting your mind think without forcing it to process a constant input of information. The philosophy of digital minimalism aims to reclaim that value by being intentional about technology.
Unfortunately, the book falls short for me when it comes to how to actually achieve this outcome. In its introduction, it states that willpower and superficial lifehacks aren’t enough to break the grip that the attention economy has on us; but, the suggestions given in the book read exactly like superficial lifehacks based on willpower. His biggest idea is the digital declutter, which involves removing all optional technology for 30 days. But how do we do this, if not through willpower?
It’s hard to believe that I’ve been watching this show for over 20 years. I used to buy the DVDs of the early seasons and watched them repeatedly. For me, the show reached its peak in 2009, the seventh season, which served as a reunion of the Seinfeld cast. Subsequent seasons have felt more forced and contrived, but I’ve been wondering whether the show actually changed, or if it was me who changed. Did it used to be more funny to see Larry David and his co-stars yelling at each other constantly, before social media made it so that the whole world was yelling at each other constantly? Have I just become softer as I age, unable to stomach the sometimes stressful nature of cringe comedy? Did I simply outgrow Larry’s misanthropic mindset, because I learned to love?
In any case, I wish to thank Larry for years—nay, decades—of entertainment, and wish him a happy retirement.
I enjoyed the premise and the humour of this Nicolas Cage vehicle. (Am I childish because the biggest laugh for me came from a well-timed fart joke?) Cage plays a boring professor who starts to appear in many people’s dreams, even if he doesn’t know them. The first act setup is at its best when it’s showing the contents of those dreams—whether they be surreal or nightmarish, it’s always funny when Cage wanders in looking bemused and out of place.
The film loses me as it escalates into the second half. It tries to introduce social commentary about the temptations of fame, but its message wasn’t particularly enlightening. It’s too easy to mock college kids for being snowflakes who want to cancel everything. Whether you agree with it or not, it’s a stale stereotype.
I’ve mentioned before my pet peeve about stories that feature writers. I think I should qualify that a little by saying that if the story isn’t about writing, then the characters don’t need to be writers. You Hurt My Feelings gets an exemption because it’s all about the anxieties and insecurities that afflict artistic people.
I barely consider myself to be a writer, but I could relate to the protagonist, who accidentally eavesdrops on her husband telling his friend that he didn’t like her latest book. I can imagine taking this revelation as hard as she does, if my entire identity was founded on my creative work. Luckily, I have other skills around which to build my sense of self-worth.
The humour in the film leans more towards the cringe comedy style, which I know doesn’t work for everyone. At the end of our viewing, my wife said, “I thought it was supposed to be funny,” apparently not noticing that I had been laughing through the whole thing.
The character of Lydia Tár is like a fictionalized illustration of the debate that’s investigated in the excellent Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma by Claire Dederer: can we separate the art from the (abusive, problematic) artist? Everyone has to answer that for themselves, and the movie is appropriately evasive about stating a definitive opinion.
It’s almost three hours long, but it flew by for me. Not that it’s fast-paced; in fact, there are many long jargon-filled dialogue scenes, especially near the beginning, where I didn’t even know what they were talking about. But it’s riveting precisely because of this: my mind was just working so hard to convince myself I’m smart enough to understand expert music theory that I could never get bored. Of course, Cate Blanchett’s charisma helps.
What I found most fascinating were the supernatural and almost horror-like aspects of the film. Tár is haunted by her dark deeds, and there are really mysterious scenes where this haunting becomes physically real. The most memorable shot for me was when she’s playing the piano, and then she suddenly startles and looks towards the camera as if someone is there, but we never see what she sees.
