C&C 57: Counterprogramming with the Coens

Election Night fare, and some recommendations

A few years ago, I started treating Election Day like a colonoscopy. Both are necessary to long-term health. I take them seriously. Beforehand, I do the reading and the required work. But come the actual day, I just want to wake up and learn the results. I’m not watching partial returns roll in as pundits read exit poll tea leaves and speculate, no matter how impressive the interactive maps are.

In years that feel particularly fraught, I counterprogram Coen Brothers movies. Joel and Ethan Coen are among the premiere artists of their generation, and their films, even the lesser efforts, bring me unalloyed joy. Plus the movies seem to yield new wisdom depending on the circumstances. The triple bill I consumed on November 8, 2016 acted as a valuable primer for the four years that followed, and I want to remind myself of their lessons.

Burn After Reading (2008). Ross Thomas with a whiff of sulfur. Whenever I rave about this one, someone says, “I can’t stand that movie. Everyone in it is so horrible.” To which I want to reply, That’s the fucking point, asshole. There’s a reason why the boys set it in and around Washington, D.C. The characters are uniformly entitled and aggrieved, obsessing over their own problems and assuming the worst about everyone else. Critical decisions are made on incomplete knowledge. “Report back to me when it makes sense.” In 2008, I took it for a movie about how the United States went to war in Iraq. Turns out it was looking forward as well as back.

Miller’s Crossing (1990). In a harsh and unpredictable world, the only way to win is to play the long game. Even if it means keeping your true motives hidden.

Hail, Caesar! (2016). Eddie Mannix’s dressing down of pampered movie star Baird Whitlock comes to mind frequently: “You’re going to do it because the picture has worth, and you have worth if you serve the picture.” Dedication to something larger than yourself is always the way forward.

In 2024, the vaguely catastrophic vibes were back. Again, I turned to Joel and Ethan. Only two movies this time, because I’m an old man now and feel even older.

The Hudsucker Proxy (1994). One of their goofier films, but one of their most upbeat, and I wanted to kindle some optimism. Also, a reminder that big business only cares about the shareholders, and will destroy you without hesitation if it aids the bottom line. Happy New Year!

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013). By this point the numbers were trending in an ominous direction, so I made a hard pivot to a movie I rank among the Coens’ best but find difficult to watch. It’s about a talented individual who can’t manage to get out of his own way, not unlike a certain political party that seems to think it can win elections by appealing mainly to people who have strong opinions about HBO shows. More importantly, it’s about a man incapable of recognizing much less processing his own grief, so he engages in repeated self-destructive behavior. We’re still collectively refusing to acknowledge the profound grief caused by Covid, and that suppressed anguish and regret is a powerful undercurrent in our politics.

For that reason, I’m trying to temper my anger with a degree of empathy. Admitting it makes me queasy; compassion shouldn’t feel like a survival mechanism. I am furious about what’s coming down the pike. I’m a straight white guy. I’m not in any imminent danger. But too many people I know and admire are. They feel legitimately threatened by what the future holds.

Plenty of ballots were cast for Donald Trump because of the cruelty. But when his half-assed ideas and punitive policies are implemented by a corps of incompetent sycophants, everyone—except the ultra-rich, many of whom backed him either publicly or privately—is going to feel the pain. That includes the people willing to excuse the hateful rhetoric and promised chaos because of their economic and/or cultural fears, stoked by lingering pandemic anxiety and a fractured media. I know some of those people, too, and some of them will regret their choice. When that happens, those people—those voters—will need someplace to go.

One group for whom I have zero empathy? The millions of 2020 voters who looked at the stark choice on this year’s ballot and decided they couldn’t even. Sorry, fuckers. Tank’s empty.

This Washington Post article did a number on me: Kara Voght watches the returns with Michael Fanone, the police officer who defended the Capitol on January 6, 2021. Remember, you’re supposed to choose something you love and let it kill you.

We now return to our regular programming.

What I’m Reading

Secret Dead Men, by Duane Swierczynski (2004/2024). The twentieth anniversary reissue of Duane’s debut novel means that I finally get to read it. And it proves that he came out of the gate thinking like nobody else. It’s dubbed “A Collective Detective Novel” because the protagonist, a 1970s reporter hellbent on taking down a criminal outfit known as The Association, has turned his skull into a flophouse for the recently deceased, saving the souls of people who can help him in his quest. It’s the inaugural Swierczynski wild ride and loads of fun.

Negative Girl, by Libby Cudmore (2024). Musical references in fiction always make me leery. They call to mind a favorite Onion story. I stopped reading one major crime writer because the work was festooned with needle drops that felt prescriptive. You know this one, right? Oh, you don’t? [Looks the reader over with mild disdain] Give it a listen. You’ll thank me.

But music is encoded in the DNA of Libby Cudmore’s crime novel. Martin Wade fronted a semi-successful band a lifetime ago. Now, out of recovery, he’s a private detective in a withering college town in Upstate New York. His assistant Valerie lives and breathes music, too. Cudmore alternates between their POVs as they tackle a case reaching back into Martin’s past. She creates a tremendous sense of place and drops some choice hardboiled prose.

If you offered me a drink I would politely decline. If you put a needle and a spoon down in front of me, I could walk away easily. But there are some things a man is just powerless against. Money. Sex. Revenge. Or a voice from the past.

Life expects a lot of a woman—be pretty, be patient, don’t bother the men, don’t get hurt and if you do, don’t cry. Because you must never cry over something that you could have prevented, and you must always be ready to prevent everything: rape, a closed fist, an earthquake, a tsunami. But life expects too much of dead girls too. Be a gorgeous corpse. Be a symbol of something, even of tragedy. A dead girl must never rest.

There are some sorrows so deep that sleep or pills or company cannot fix them. For those times, there is Elvis Costello.

That last sentiment I wholeheartedly endorse.

What I’m Watching

The Silent Hour (2024). Director Brad Anderson’s filmography is studded with smart, knotty thrillers: Session Nine, The Machinist, TransSiberian, The Call, Beirut. His latest keeps the streak going. A Boston cop (Joel Kinnaman) losing his hearing because of a work accident is pressed into service to translate a deaf witness’s testimony—then must protect her from killers who have invaded her building. One major plot twist is so obvious I don’t think it’s meant to be a twist. Otherwise, this is a rock-solid and compact (99 minutes!) piece of work that cannily folds gentrification into the plot. It was funny to see the Republic Pictures logo up top, because with minimal tweaks this movie could have been made in the 1940s.

Hundreds of Beavers (2022). Mike Cheslik’s deranged and delightful labor of love is a mashup of silent movie comedy, video games, and vintage animation. Thrill to the adventures of Jean Kayak, applejack salesman turned fur trapper, who takes on the title rabble of rodents to win the hand of a fair maiden. Relentlessly inventive and consistently hilarious, packed with callbacks and slow-burn jokes. Cowriter/star Ryland Brickson Cole Tews is blessed with the best cartoonish bravado since Bruce Campbell. Watch the trailer above and see if it’s for you. I bet it is.