Imposters, Fresh Princes, and Fake Psychics in Your Weekly Recs…
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“I have a devil of a good time reading the Wag.”—Daniel Webster
Dear Wags,
Outrage gets terribly exhausting. We’re in a constant state of agitation, with all this J’accusing and I-saw-Goody-Proctor-with-the Devil business. There’s a veritable shortage of kindling, given all the martyrs in need of a flambé. Wherever are we going to find the wood to fashion a decent set of stocks? We should hold tyrants and boobs accountable, but lately, all the calling-out has left us hoarse and with a sour taste in our mouths. Let us be bold and draw a distinction between real injustices and gotcha moments, between heinous crimes and annoying boo-boo’s. If we cannot craft a hierarchy of sins, we will have given up on interesting conversation. Even worse, artists and thinkers—who must take risks—will be cowed into silence. Or, they will make bad art and think meek thoughts (it may be happening already). In a free society, or at least one with lofty aspirations to said, we may be provoked, but we can also apologize. With such ground rules, it might be possible to go on living together for a few more days.
Wag can be flip, but this is serious. There is a difference between criticism of the powerful (necessary) and forming an endless, circular fire squad. There are forces at work only too happy to have us tear each another apart, and they do not play by our rules. We will never shame them into good behavior, but we can create a culture so toxic for ourselves that we’ll have nothing left when real resolve is called for. It often feels as if that day is coming. Will we be ready? Meantime, what sets us apart is not our inexhaustible capacity to get pissed off —why, any old creature can do that!—but human compassion. We ought to get better at deploying it. And now, some lovely distractions for the week.
Yours Ever,
Series
Inventing Anna (Netflix). We do love an imposter! Anna Sorokin was no Talented Mr. Ripley, but she was great at masquerading as a European socialite named Anna Delvey and fleecing greedy and gullible New Yorkers. Julia Garner, that crazy kid from Ozark, plays the con artist, while Anna Chlumsky is the reporter who untangles her web. Another wicked bon-bon from Dame Shonda Rhimes.
Doc Series
We Need to Talk About Cosby (Showtime). Oh, yes we do. Genius W. Kamau Bell takes on the legacy of Bill Cosby — not just America’s Dad, but a pivotal figure in our society and Black Culture—and what his fall has meant for all of us. Bracing.
Reboot
Bel Air (Peacock). What happened to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air? Sir Will Smith’s ‘90s fable of an inner city Philly kid who finds himself living high on Chalon Road, or thereabouts, is a lot darker in this reinvention. As in, those guys from the old neighborhood really want him dead. Jabari Banks is Will, and Olly Sholoton is snotty Carlton, but there is no Carlton Dance. It’s moody and glamorous and a bit like The O.C. Meaning, it’s fun.
Picture
Death on the Nile (Theaters). It’s so dreadfully easy…killing people, wrote Wag Emerita Agatha Christie in her whodunit set aboard the Karnak, a luxury steamer that has the Grim Reaper for a cruise director. Baron Kenneth Branagh is back in mustachios as Hercule Poirot in a very glossy version of the 1937 thriller (It will stream on Disney+). —Lisa Wilkes
From the Archive
The word erasure is overused and dreadful. It’s also painfully apt when it comes to a trend of editing Jewishness out of our discourse. In the case of Hollywood, this is especially jarring, for it would not exist without the sweat and dreams of Jewish immigrants. Show business is riven through with the aspirations, fears, flaws and ingenuity of these pioneers. This is where the story begins, and nobody tells it better than Neal Gabler in his 1988 book An Empire of Their Own. It’s never been a more timely read. —Samuel Glick
New Fiction
Jiu-an is scary competent, a New York physician who sees no point in work-life balance. When her father dies, she spares 48 hours to attend the funeral. She has built herself an arid world, in which human relationships are secondary. Naturally, her loved ones fear she’s sealed herself off from the possibility of that trifle, happiness. But behind chilly awkwardness hides a wry observer of society, chafing at the absurdity of it all. Weike Wang’s Joan is Okay is a deeply humane book about an extraordinary ordinary woman, blazing her own path. —Waverly Jong
How does it feel, having that big brain tingle with exciting new stimuli? Wags get that jolt all the time! Wouldn’t you like to spread the sizzle by sharing us with friends? Of course you would! You can also become a Deluxe Super Duper Premium Subscriber, and blaze with the brilliance of 1,000 suns.Subscribe
If you wanted to speak to dead people in the 1960s, your bridge was Lamar Keene, a phony medium who later claimed he raked in millions running a so-called “psychic mafia” of grifters. In Fake Psychic, the dauntless Vicky Baker of BBC Radio 4 delves into the career of a charming rogue. Along the way, she explains America’s long obsession with spiritualism. “He was a devious gentleman,” says one of Keene’s acquaintances. “It was if you imagined the devil as a noble stranger.” He’ll hook you, too. —Margaretta Fox
People, believe me I know/Life can be so heavy/but you’re not alone. Brooklyn’s Cory Henry is a wonder as a singer/songwriter and a magician on the Hammond organ. He makes it soar in Fighting for Peace, a simple song about the pursuit of justice powered by his tender vocals. There’s hope for us yet. —Henry Biggs
Rachel was a year older when I was in the second grade/I thought she might know everything/I took her word like a golden ring. Lucy Dacus sings in Kissing Lessons, a wry reminiscence about girlhood experimentation and romantic fantasy. It’s a funny, sweet and very catchy reflection on the messiness of growing up. —Amy Antsler
Maison Kitsuné and Wag see eye to eye on so many things. Such as, we like canines, and the right shade of orange, and clothes suitable for going out, but also comfortable enough for a surreptitious nap. The Franco-Japanese clothier and record label has an outpost in Silver Lake, with an interior evocative of James and the Giant Peach. Sometimes, there’s a DJ, because it’s that kind of joint. You can’t go wrong with a fox head patch t-shirt, which is like something Jeff Spicoli would wear, if he worked at CAA. (3816 W Sunset Blvd Los Angeles CA 90026). —Skip Engblom
Our Black History Month movie celebration continues with Andrew L. Stone’s Stormy Weather, one of two films with all-Black casts released in 1943 (the other was MGM’s Cabin in the Sky). At a time when African Americans rarely appeared in movies outside of bit parts as servants, Weather showcased some of the era’s greatest performers in a cast that featured Lena Horne, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, Cab Calloway, Katherine Dunham, the Nicholas Brothers and Fats Waller. The plot is a slight story about a dancer’s rise to fame, but the musical numbers — more than 20 in 77 minutes —are an exuberant celebration of a marginalized culture. The film isn’t free of the stereotypes of the era, but it was daring in its lavish presentation of a fantasy world far from the hardships faced by everyday African Americans. Like Cabin, it was part of a push to improve race relations during World War II, but segregation severely restricted its distribution. The title song, performed by Horne about an hour into the action, is a showstopper. (Story Weather screens this month on TCM)
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“I felt a touch peaked after visiting those grubby Hummels, but the Wag put a faint hint of tea rose into my wan, gentle countenance.”—Elizabeth March
August 9, 2024
