{"id":150716,"date":"2021-02-05T09:01:42","date_gmt":"2021-02-05T14:01:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=150716"},"modified":"2021-02-05T10:45:52","modified_gmt":"2021-02-05T15:45:52","slug":"what-our-contributors-are-reading-and-watching-this-winter","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/05\/what-our-contributors-are-reading-and-watching-this-winter\/","title":{"rendered":"What Our Contributors Are Reading and Watching This Winter"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Promotional still from Ethos<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

As I searched for new shows to binge during quarantine this fall, I kept forgetting the title of the most recent Turkish Netflix drama. Ethics<\/em>? Event<\/em>? Euphoria<\/em> (no), Eulogy<\/em> \u2026 Ego<\/em> \u2026 What was that show friends had told me to watch?<\/p>\n

The English title is Ethos<\/em><\/a>, but the words you see in the opening credits are, of course, in Turkish: Bir Ba\u015fkad\u0131r<\/em>. Episode after episode, I would rack my brain for a suitable translation\u2014one that fit the idea of ethos<\/em>, but also matched the delicate world of the show. \u201cIt\u2019s Something Else,\u201d I ventured to my partner. Or, \u201cThere\u2019s One More Thing.\u201d Or, maybe, simply, \u201cThe Other,\u201d as in, an-other-ness? Something about this eight-episode miniseries\u2014its wistful soundtrack<\/a>, its themes of miscommunication, deflection, silence, and withholding\u2014encouraged me to keep generating my own language for it. I still haven\u2019t looked up the dictionary translation for the Turkish phrase.<\/p>\n

Ethos<\/em> is, admittedly, the first Turkish show I\u2019ve managed to watch past the first episode. I never took to the long and overstated soap operas that played continuously on the TV in the restaurants of my childhood, nor could I get into the flat knockoffs of American shows with equally vague titles, like Intersection<\/em><\/a>.<\/em> I even struck out with The Magnificent Century<\/em><\/a>\u2014a gaudy historical drama about sex in the Ottoman Empire that I did attempt, in earnest, to enjoy.<\/p>\n

What makes Ethos<\/em> different is, well, everything and nothing, which is part of its running metacommentary. In its better moments, the show uses subtle humor and poignant details to write its characters both into and then out of the roles that it also, inevitably, inscribes. The most memorable scenes revolve around communication set askew: the aristocratic mother who calls her housekeeper by the wrong name, the conservative abla<\/em> who prays as a way of ignoring her cosmopolitan sister, the ornery young hodja<\/em>-in-training who tries to flirt by detailing each stop on a bus route through unremarkable neighborhoods of the city.<\/p>\n

I appreciated what the show was able to do with a bus route, the way it displaced any celebratory focus on Istanbul\u2019s prominent postcard sites. Rather than marveling at the Hagia Sophia or the Blue Mosque, the camera takes us to the interior spaces of the city: dystopian skyscrapers, dingy suburban nightclubs, sun-soaked Anatolian homes. About halfway through the series, when I saw the Bosphorus lapping up against the glass window of a traditional Ottoman yal\u0131<\/em><\/a>, I nearly choked on my Kombrewcha. I kept trying to figure out where the camera was shooting from, which neighborhood these characters actually lived in. At some point, I thought I could make out the Galata tower in the distance, but I wasn\u2019t too sure.<\/p>\n

Although I had to read the subtitles, I could tell the dialogue in Ethos<\/em> leaned heavily on the fanciful \u201cgossip tense<\/a>\u201d in Turkish (mish-mush<\/em>)\u2014a grammar used to describe anything that is only known allegedly, or secondhand. Even with subtitles, the conversations and spaces of the show reveal the thickly layered social and psychological underpinnings of this grammar, what it means to have a \u201cgossip tense\u201d at all. \u2014Sara Deniz Akant<\/a><\/strong> <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

D.H. Lawrence<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

After last month\u2019s white supremacist convulsion at the Capitol Building, I went back to an essay I\u2019ve read many times by D.\u2009H. Lawrence called \u201cFenimore Cooper\u2019s Leatherstocking Novels<\/a>.\u201d In the past, mass shootings\u2014school shootings in particular\u2014have brought me to revisit this essay in an attempt to understand what it is about the American psyche that compels us to try to murder each other on a regular basis.<\/p>\n

Lawrence\u2019s style is, I don\u2019t know, weird, but after a minute you get used to it. He\u2019s at the podium, preaching. Lots of exclamation points. Be forewarned, his essay\u2019s retrograde colonialist attitudes require reading from an ironic distance, just as we\u2019d read the Leatherstocking novels themselves. My arguments with Lawrence\u2019s approach are part of why I keep returning to this essay, I suspect.<\/p>\n

He starts out with that old writing-workshop trick of telling you how much he loves the Leatherstocking novels before ripping them down to the studs. Then he takes some ad hominem shots at Fenimore Cooper, who\u2014pearl clutcher\u2014referred to his writing as \u201cmy work.\u201d You can practically see Lawrence\u2019s eyeballs rolling around his head when he writes, \u201cIf there is one thing that annoys me more than a business man and his BUSINESS<\/small>, it is an artist, a writer, painter, musician, and MY WORK<\/small>.\u201d He accuses JFC of being a liar, a self-deluded dandy, a fake. And then it gets ugly, because Lawrence\u2019s take on the colonialist destiny of white Americans is almost as troubling as the American myths of manifest destiny he\u2019s attacking. But if you can lash yourself to the mast and weather it all, you\u2019ll arrive at the reason I keep rereading this essay: \u201cAmerican Democracy was a form of self-murder, always. Or of murdering somebody else.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sure, it\u2019s a metaphor. America is a young snake that has to shed its old, European skin in order to become a slick, vital, wriggling democratic thing. But it\u2019s also as literal as a bullet to the brain. I think I return to this essay as a corrective to my own hope that this country is not by nature a bloodbath, and has not always been. There\u2019s no resolution here, just recognizance and forgetting, repeated endlessly. It\u2019s a reminder to see that which is, not that as I wish it would be. \u2014Jack Livings<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Still from Shadow of a Doubt<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThe enemy is within,\u201d remarked House Speaker Nancy Pelosi in a recent press conference; those words rang in my head as I rewatched Hitchcock\u2019s sublime\u00a0Shadow of a Doubt<\/em><\/a> for maybe the twentieth time. Teresa Wright plays Charlie, the teenage girl who summons her uncle (also named Charlie) to save her family from their drab, boring, bourgeois American lives. But from the moment Uncle Charlie (Joseph Cotten) emerges from a mephitic cloud of smoke at the railway station, we know this is going to end badly. Eventually he is revealed to be a fascist and a sociopath, and he aims to take possession of Charlie\u2019s soul.<\/p>\n

Released in early 1943, this is a film about the spread of ideas, about sickness and contamination. Even music is a contaminant here\u2014like the \u201ctune\u201d stuck in Charlie\u2019s head, the one she can\u2019t stop humming, ends up being a sort of rebus for her uncle\u2019s hidden crimes. \u201cI think tunes jump from head to head,\u201d she muses, a line that resonates with Hitchcock\u2019s entire body of work, most prominently in Psycho<\/em>, in which Mother has \u201cjumped\u201d into Norman\u2019s body, come to take possession of him.\u00a0<\/strong>Charlie, like Norman, is too open. She is capable of telepathy and communicating across realms. It\u2019s a gift that becomes her curse.\u00a0Shadow of a Doubt<\/em>\u00a0is a kind of horror movie about communication.<\/p>\n

I love the odd, creepy subtexts in this movie. I love the twinning of the Charlies, the scherzos of black comedy, the waltzing fin de si\u00e8cle couples that make semiregular appearances. Teresa Wright gives a pitch-perfect performance\u2014she gets every shade of Charlie\u2019s innocence and disillusionment. Cotten oozes charm and menace. There is a subversive erotic charge to their relationship, an incestuous element Hitchcock doesn\u2019t bother to conceal. \u201cWe\u2019re not just an uncle and a niece,\u201d Wright tells the gap-toothed Cotten as he slips the ring of one of his murdered victims on her finger. \u201cIt\u2019s something else.\u201d The \u201csomething else\u201d that defines their relationship is one of several enigmas at the center of this ravishing, cryptic, unsettling film. \u2014 <\/strong>David Adjmi<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Still from 16 Days of Glory<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019ve spent some strange hours recently with Bud Greenspan\u2019s Olympics documentaries, starting with 16 Days of Glory<\/em><\/a>, a five-hour film that chronicles the 1984 summer games in Los Angeles. Greenspan made a bunch of these, starting with the \u201984 Olympics and progressing into the twenty-first century. The earliest installments are the most unwieldy and also the most absorbing, as longstanding rivalries and low-profile underdog stories intersect with geopolitics and nationalisms in revealing ways. I also very specifically recommend the opening-ceremonies montage from the film on the 1994 Lillehammer games, which culminates in someone executing a massive ski jump into the arena while holding the lit torch. \u2014<\/strong>Natalie Shapero<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I love getting new Song Cave titles in the mail; they\u2019re beautiful objects, always sparking with thought. Most recently, the stripped-down voice of Phan Nhi\u00ean Hao\u2019s Paper Bells<\/em><\/a>, translated by Hai-Dang Phan, has been echoing in my head and influencing how I see. The poems curate a kind of object music, knitted by little jumps, that can feel like Apollinaire, like Transtr\u00f6mer:<\/p>\n

Dawn ferments in the alley caf\u00e9
\nsubmissive like spoiled fish.
\nBehind glass pizza melts
\nforeigners\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 in the age of integration \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and boxers
\nhaggle in the backpacker district. (\u201cThe City of Ant Nests\u201d)<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

In other poems, such as \u201cNights Working as a Janitor in Seattle,\u201d Hao\u2019s ironies, which range from the quietly affectionate to the declamatory, both contain and wryly indulge the pathos of exile:<\/p>\n

you flee from one floor to the next
\nall night, a lost soldier
\nfrom a throng of defeated immigrants<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

What sticks with me is the sense of vast stretches of time not condensed into gemmy lyric, but rather indexed in their refusal to cohere. The poems feel consubstantial with the detritus of globalization they so often record. In a materialist ars poetica that feels directed against Heaney\u2019s naturalism, Hao writes, in \u201cManufacturing Poetry\u201d:<\/p>\n

In an afternoon with nothing to do
\nI sit manufacturing poems
\nout of sixteen screws, two metal plates,
\nand four wheels<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

As in Lorine Niedecker\u2019s \u201ccondensery,\u201d there\u2019s a play on the long association of poetry and \u201cnothing,\u201d but there\u2019s also a careful attention to the tiny imaginative possibilities of interstitial time. It\u2019s possible to read the fact that \u201cmanufacturing,\u201d i.e., labor, structures even potential leisure time as depressing, or constricting, and perhaps it is, but this is a poem that ends in an impossible victory over such inexorable forces: \u201cBlasting open fate \/ I tunnel deep.\u201d Making has changed to destruction, modesty to unsustainable bravado. For me, the real poem is in the echoic emptiness after that brash declaration, as the visible poem is reabsorbed by the world that made it. \u2014Noah Warren<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Still from The Florida Project<\/em><\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019d say I don\u2019t mean to always go so hard in the paint for Floridian stories\u2014but that would be a lie. I do. If you haven\u2019t seen The Florida Project<\/em><\/a> yet, you should, right away. It has the atmosphere of a small film, but the emotional and visual impact is astounding, reminiscent of my favorite kind of writing. Quiet, searing, haunting stories. The film essentially explores the lives of Sunshine State residents pushed to the outskirts of their own city by the relentless tourism of Walt Disney attractions (and other parks; Orlando is home to so many). The larger commentary seems to be about capitalism, or at least that\u2019s what I got\u2014how the system drains resources from local communities for the benefit of someone far richer and more powerful a thousand miles away. On the surface, I think the film portrays Floridians and Florida exactly as the rest of the country expects. But as in all things, once we move beyond the layers of our own prejudice, we can come to see the true nature of something or someone sparking underneath, their humanity as visceral as our own. If we allow ourselves, we can see the complexity and awfulness and beauty that define living for us all. 10\/10 had me in my feelings, and made me appreciate that sometimes, even when uncomfortable, that\u2019s the best place to be. \u2014Dantiel W. Moniz<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2018T\u2019 Space:\u00a0Opening Celebration for Ensamble Studio with Fast Forward and Marie Howe (July 25, 2020)<\/i><\/a> brings together music, architecture, and poetry in one event. Fast Forward\u2019s musical performance sparked my recent poem, \u201cDilemma,\u201d in the Winter issue. As I watched Fast Forward tumble across bicycle handlebars, I thought of John Cage, chance, noise, and music. And as I watched Ca\u2019n Terra make a space out of an abandoned stone quarry in Menorca, I thought of transformations on our planet. Finally, in watching and listening to Marie Howe read her poetry, I thought of luminous and precise language. I hope viewing this video gives you as much pleasure as I received. \u2014Arthur Sze<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Lately, I\u2019ve been searching for a poetry that can meet my weary attention. Uche Nduka\u2019s Facing You<\/em><\/a>\u00a0is a collection whose relationship to meaning is abstract, haptic, immediate, associative, and gratifyingly dense all at once. Desire and carnality subsume both his syntax and poetry\u2019s purpose\u2014to plumb experience\u2019s unspoken gaps, to find the phenomena there waiting to bloom. Nduka\u2019s propositions are by turns political and erotic, provocative and punning, as these short, flinty and lushly irreverent poems buzz into focus, linger, flit away. It\u2019s as close to hummingbirds as poetry can be:<\/p>\n

What happens, the tumult asks
\nwhen you fall through history?<\/p>\n

\u2026Why do I throw parties
\nin the abyss?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u201cYou make sublimity \/ hot,\u201d he writes, as the poems skip and languish in their \u201caccounting, decanting \/ of the triple experience.\u201d I\u2019m relieved to find in this work none of exposition\u2019s encumbrances, just voice, cresting into aphorism, embodied in a series of epigrammatic and sonically juicy cadences. Nduka\u2019s poems prompt as much as they describe: \u201cMay it not be your thought alone \/ that is rebellious,\u201d he imparts. In a season of solitude, Nduka\u2019s work reminds me of the lyric\u2019s double pleasure, belonging to itself and to others, and of its many shared mouths, speaking in compact, evocative language like glimmering beads of sweat. \u2014Alicia Wright<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Contributors from the Winter issue share their favorite recent finds.<\/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":[67827],"class_list":["post-150716","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat Our Contributors Are Reading and Watching This Winter by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Contributors from the Winter issue share their favorite recent finds.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/05\/what-our-contributors-are-reading-and-watching-this-winter\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta 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