{"id":141376,"date":"2019-12-13T14:53:39","date_gmt":"2019-12-13T19:53:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=141376"},"modified":"2019-12-13T15:46:05","modified_gmt":"2019-12-13T20:46:05","slug":"staff-picks-bas-beauvoir-and-britain","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/12\/13\/staff-picks-bas-beauvoir-and-britain\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Bas, Beauvoir, and Britain"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Damon Daunno as Curly and Mary Testa as Aunt Eller in Oklahoma!<\/em> \u00a9 Little Fang.<\/p><\/div>\n

My junior year of high school, I was not asked to the prom. Bear in mind that my high school had 4,500 students and that although 2,250 of them were eligible to attend this dance, not a single person deigned to be my date. I went, instead, to see Oklahoma!<\/em> A lovely time, to be sure, but boring as all get-out. While my peers enjoyed a disastrous evening of sex, drugs, and revelry, I watched that bland production from a blurry distance. At Daniel Fish\u2019s Oklahoma!<\/em><\/a> last weekend, I found these two evenings had merged into a marvelous party, to which I had finally, belatedly been invited. Twitter chatter informed me this was \u201cSexy Oklahoma!<\/em>,\u201d and while it certainly is<\/em> sexy, it\u2019s also so delightful I beamed through much of the first act. It\u2019s funny and warm. The house lights are almost always up, and they serve chili during intermission. First, we are primed with tenderness; then, tragedy unfolds, and its arrival is shocking, cold, and truthful. I loved it, and I\u2019m pretty darn sure it loved me back\u2014if only for one night. \u2014Noor Qasim\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

I still have my undergraduate copy of The Second Sex<\/em><\/a>, nearly every page dog-eared and underlined enthusiastically. I consult it regularly. The margin notes reflect my mental state at each moment of rereading: there, a starry-eyed student just entering the world; here, an older self, writing the initials of a man who had broken my heart. So it was with great eagerness that I delved into Kate Kirkpatrick\u2019s recent biography of Simone de Beauvoir, Becoming Beauvoir<\/em><\/a>. Kirkpatrick is herself a philosopher, and she brings this background to her incisive portrayal of Beauvoir\u2019s career, writing, and life. Beauvoir was far from simply a companion to Sartre; in fact, Kirkpatrick writes, many of Sartre\u2019s most famous philosophical insights were heavily influenced by Beauvoir\u2019s own<\/em> work on the ideas of bad faith and freedom\u2014ideas that she was exploring in her diary as early as age twenty. As a fan of Beauvoir\u2019s novels, I found it thrilling to learn how she developed her unique mixtures of autobiography and fiction. It\u2019s both inspiring and sobering to see how Beauvoir grappled throughout her life with the very real concerns of balancing the domestic, the private, and the passionate in her work and public life. In fact, Becoming Beauvoir\u00a0<\/em>has\u00a0me turning to Beauvoir again\u2014I started reading The Woman Destroyed<\/em> earlier this week. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

I suppose most of the people reading this have already experienced the gut-wrenching despair and confusion that accompanies the result of an election. I imagine most of you felt pretty shit the day the forty-fifth president of the United States was elected. I felt pretty shit that day, too. I also felt pretty shit the day the result of the Brexit vote was announced. But today is a new level of shit, it seems to me, because my compatriots in Britain have chosen to double down and return Boris Johnson to Number 10 with the largest majority since Thatcher. Sometimes, I find this stuff fucking inexplicable. It\u2019s inexplicable to my pals, too, and to most of the writers and artists whose work I admire. Yesterday, the playwright and performer Daniel Kitson emailed his subscribers about the election and described his creative output as one that \u201cemerge[s] entirely from the heart and the mind of a Labour Voter.\u201d His characters are marginalized and, often, forgotten, and his work is profound and poetic and sad. He is a compassionate performer, and we could all do with a bit of that right now. His latest show, Keep<\/em><\/a>, runs until December 19 at St. Ann\u2019s Warehouse. You really, really should go. \u2014Robin Jones<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Still from Tales from the Golden Age<\/em>. \u00a9 Wild Bunch.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I saw Tales from the Golden Age<\/em><\/a> some weeks ago at Film Forum. Those who didn\u2019t can stream it, and mid-December, the anniversary of the Romanian Revolution, is the perfect time to do so. Here are all the absurdity and horror of late-stage communism in six short, bleakly comic glimpses. A village overextends itself to impress a passing motorcade, but before it arrives, an \u201cinspector\u201d gets everybody drunk and marooned on a carousel rented for the occasion. A family manages to get a pig for Christmas, but they have to kill it themselves\u2014in their apartment. To keep it from their neighbors, the family quietly gasses the pig in their kitchen. A fine Eastern European sense of place winds through the Tales<\/em>: all the apartment kitchens have doors, all the refrigerators are full of leftovers covered with upside-down plates. Each chapter closes with a legend: \u201cLegend has it that they were all still trapped there when the motorcade did after all pass through.\u201d \u201cLegend has it that the family used what remained of the animal for the seasonal celebrations.\u201d It\u2019s supposed to be funny, and I laughed, but the jokes are pulled from hunger and despair. This year a Romanian friend sent me a picture from her polling station of a trash can with a slit cut in the taped-down lid. She found this hilarious. Made in 2009, twenty years after the revolution, Tales<\/em> implies that carousel traps, pig gassings, and other horrors are mere legend now, left in the dust by present-day truth. The situation has arguably improved since then, but accusations of corruption are frequent. Legend has it that your vote ends up in the trash can. It is both metaphor and not-too-distant truth\u2014to a certain new-world-order-weary sensibility, as absurdly comic as it is brutal. \u2014Jane Breakell<\/strong><\/p>\n

A man walking his dog past the Lehmann Maupin on Twenty-Fourth Street last week did a double take and stopped by the gallery\u2019s glass door. He had caught sight of a Hernan Bas painting, and after a moment, he (and his basset hound) joined me in front of one of the eight canvases exhibited in \u201cTime Life<\/a>\u201d (on view through January 4, 2020). How could he not open the door? Bas\u2019s subjects\u2014handsome, effete young men with heavy-lidded eyes and fulsome lips\u2014draw you in with their slight, sullen glance. These paintings are genre art in the sense that they give us a scene in the story of these men\u2019s lives, but there\u2019s nothing quotidian about them. The Occult Enthusiast<\/em> captures a man nodding off amid a cluttered room of arcane curiosities, a Ouija board on his desk; The Glofish<\/em> Enthusiast<\/em>, whose neon accents must be appreciated in person, features a boy alone with his net in a basement aquarium. Neither subject looks enthused; Bas\u2019s men are trapped in their own heads, where their selfhood rages quietly. My favorite painting of the show is The Sip In<\/em>, which features the interior of Julius\u2019, New York\u2019s oldest gay bar, where three besuited men present unfocused stares as a disembodied hand covers the one beer in front of them (the history<\/a> of this painting<\/a> is a fascinating dive into a chapter of LGBT rights in New York). But I come to The Sip In<\/em> for the fourth figure, a boy sitting alone in a red sweater, making direct eye contact with the viewer and raising his martini. There\u2019s a smile at the corner of his lips. It\u2019s not as bad as it all seems. Have a drink; stay a while. \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

This week, as Christmas trees began to light up street corners around my neighborhood, I recalled a scene from Garth Greenwell\u2019s story \u201cThe Frog King<\/a>,\u201d which I must have reread half a dozen times when it appeared in The New Yorker<\/em> last fall. In the opening scene, the narrator and his boyfriend, R, decorate a small tree together in their apartment in Sofia, Bulgaria. R\u2014a somewhat sentimental and whimsical character\u2014swaddles the tree in tinsel and gives it a name: Madeleine. \u201cHe liked to give things names,\u201d the narrator reflects, \u201cI think it was a way of laying claim to them.\u201d The story, which follows the couple on a romantic trip to Italy, is an excerpt from Greenwell\u2019s forthcoming book Cleanness<\/em><\/a>, which follows the narrator\u2019s love affairs with several different men over a number of years. A tale of tumultuous romances, the book is explicitly\u2014almost incandescently\u2014erotic. In scenes containing both tenderness and violence, Greenwell showcases his powers as a taxonomist of touch, revealing that there are as many ways to put your hands on someone as there are Christmas lights twinkling over Bologna. At one point, the narrator kisses every spot on R\u2019s body, from the soles of his feet up to his scalp. At another, he lies awake in bed and feels R roll over, half-asleep, and curl against him, pressing his face against his shoulder. He thinks to himself, \u201cThey could make a whole life \u2026 these moments.\u201d\u00a0\u2014Cornelia Channing<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Garth Greenwell. \u00a9 Bill Adams.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 marvels at Garth Greenwell\u2019s taxonomy of touch, slips into Herman Bas\u2019s paintings, and sighs deeply.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-141376","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Bas, Beauvoir, and Britain by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 marvels at Garth Greenwell\u2019s taxonomy of touch, slips into Herman Bas\u2019s paintings, and sighs deeply.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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