David Lynch, the visionary and eccentric director behind Twin Peaks, Blue Velvet, and Eraserhead has died. He was 78. Just a few months ago, Lynch revealed on social media that he was suffering from emphysema after years of smoking. He mentioned that he was afraid to leave his home for fear that he might become infected with COVID-19. Still, Lynch made a video from his home almost every day during the pandemic to keep his fans entertained—updating viewers about the daily weather and directly sharing his most intimate thoughts.
Lynch's family posted the news of his passing on Facebook. "There’s a big hole in the world now that he’s no longer with us," the message reads. "But, as he would say, ‘Keep your eye on the donut and not on the hole.’ It’s a beautiful day with golden sunshine and blue skies all the way."
Growing up as a painter and an animated short film director, the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts student was encouraged to produce a film that would later become 1977's Eraserhead. The surrealist black comedy was misunderstood at the time, though it now lives among independent films such as Pink Flamingos and Night of the Living Dead as a cult favorite among moviegoers.
After Eraserhead, a producer for Mel Brooks contracted Lynch to direct The Elephant Man. The story followed a deformed Victorian gentleman who is tortured by high society in a freak show. The film was both a commercial and critical success, garnering eight nominations at the Academy Awards. He was even asked by George Lucas to direct Return of the Jedi, to which Lynch reportedly responded that he had "zero interest" in pursuing. Instead, he took on the controversial project to adapt Frank Herbert's Dune, which is now enjoying a second revival in theatres thanks to Denis Villeneuve's latest franchise.
Lynch excelled at a brand of horror that no one has replicated without mentioning his name in the same conversation. After Blue Velvet's psychosexual journey transfixed the film industry, the director drove home his signature style with Twin Peaks. Starring Kyle MacLachlan, the supernatural murder mystery cemented Lynch as one of the greatest storytellers of our generation. He followed up Twin Peaks with films such as Mulholland Drive, Lost Highway, Inland Empire, and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me.
In one of his final addresses to his fans, Lynch sought to warn others of the dangers of smoking. "I have to say that I enjoyed smoking very much, and I do love tobacco—the smell of it, lighting cigarettes on fire, smoking them—but there is a price to pay for this enjoyment, and the price for me is emphysema," he wrote on X this past August. "I have now quit smoking for over two years. Recently I had many tests and the good news is that I am in excellent shape except for emphysema. I am filled with happiness, and I will never retire. I want you all to know that I really appreciate your concern. Love, David."
Originally published on Esquire US
It was a simpler time back then. We grew up watching Adam Sandler as he blew up with his antics on a short but memorable stint on Saturday Night Live. His comedy albums (They're All Gonna Laugh At You!; What The Hell Happened To Me?; et al) gave rise to tracks like "The Longest Pee" and "Ode to My Car" were passed around in mp3 formats by tittering teens (me included!). Sandler soon graced the big screens with The Waterboy and Billy Madison, giving a visual form to the "man-child" humour that he was known for. His films follow a formula of a child-like protagonist trying to operate in an adult world on his own terms and succeeding, and in some way, is exemplary of Sandler's own career with Punch-Drunk Love being his first showcase in a drama playing—you guess it—a man-child.
That said, the wheel eventually turns and we return to what Sandler began, with a sequel to one of his cult comedy classics: Happy Gilmore.
Reprising his role as Happy, the short-tempered hockey player-turned-golfer, in Happy Gilmore 2, we’ll see him navigate the trials of golf stardom, legacy building, and perhaps even a few existential musings—well, as much as Happy can muster.
The teaser trailer dropped just before Christmas, giving fans a first glimpse of what’s to come. Joining Sandler is an ensemble cast as eclectic as it is unexpected. NFL star Travis Kelce makes his acting debut, bringing a touch of sports authenticity and his signature charisma. Music sensation Bad Bunny steps off the stage and onto the green, adding intrigue to a character yet to be fully revealed. Meanwhile, Margaret Qualley brings her dramatic prowess to the mix, balancing the chaos with some heartfelt moments.
Returning fan favourites Christopher McDonald as the ever-scheming and shit-eater-for-breakfast, Shooter McGavin and Julie Bowen as Virginia Venit promise a healthy dose of nostalgia. We won't see Carl Weathers, Bob Barker or Richard Kiel (the actors died 2024, 2023 and 2014, respectively) but, at least, we get to see Rob Schneider in something.
While the release date hasn’t been pinned down, Netflix plans to unveil Happy Gilmore 2 in 2025, giving us plenty of time to rewatch the original and speculate whether 29 years later, a sequel is still able to retain its magic.
Cactus Plant Flea Market (CPFM) has the secret sauce.
You might say the streetwear brand—founded almost a decade ago by Pharrell's former assistant, Cynthia Lu—is the Krusty Krab of the fashion world, since she sits comfortably on a seemingly simple yet impossible to replicate recipe for success.
Lost? You're clearly not a SpongeBob stan, meaning CPFM's next collab is not for you. But for those fond of some nautical nonsense, here's a whopper—or rather, a Krabby Patty—of a collection: Cactus Plant Flea Market x SpongeBob SquarePants x Uniqlo.
A tripartite limited-edition line which celebrates 25 years of the Nickelodeon show, infused with Flea Market's coveted flavours.
As if the porous yellow fella and his friends aren't absurd enough—he lives, with his pet snail, Gary, in a pineapple under the sea, lest we forget—Lu has shooed the unlikely gang further into the abstract for the project, resulting in a few more eyes and some uncanny facial expressions.
The American designer also has fun referencing fan-favourite moments. For example, one tee is an ode to “Tea at the Treedome”, one of the first-ever SpongeBob episodes in which Spongebob refuses to admit he's drying out in Sandy's dome.
Silly—yes. And fun! Silly fun we can all afford—which is arguably half the reason it's fun, because this is a Uniqlo collab available in Uniqlo stores (and on the retailer's website) for Uniqlo prices.
I'mmmmm ready! Are you?
The SpongeBob SqaurePants x Cactus Plant Flea Market x Uniqlo collaborative collection arrives on Friday 13 December in-store and online.
Originally published on Esquire UK
What's it like to be a second banana? The bit role player? The calefare? We get a peek at the life of the background actors with the Interior Chinatown trailer. In it, Jimmy O Yang plays Willis Wu, who feels that there's more to his station than meets the eye. When Chloe Bennet's Detective Lana Li enlists his help in her case, Willis sees this as an opportunity to break free from his "Generic Asian Man" role.
Based on Charles Yu’s award-winning novel of the same name, the 10-episode series trailer looks like it combines kung fu, noir, police procedural, some romance, and a whole lot of weirdness. Interior Chinatown also stars Ronnie Chieng, Tzi Ma, Archie Kao, and Lisa Gilroy.
While Interior Chinatown is filled with a mostly Asian cast that skewers the stereotypes that Hollywood loves to utilise, it is also about finding one's identity in a sea of tropes. The book was written in a screenplay format, which felt like the normal transition for an adaptation to the big screen... but the novel was perfect on its own. Can this series do it justice?
With the author, Charles Yu, acting as Interior Chinatown's showrunner (Yu was also the story editor for HBO's Westworld) and Taika Waititi directing the pilot, the odds for the show being a runaway hit look really good.
I guess, we'll find out when all episodes of Interior Chinatown are released 19 November on Disney+.
I've written far too many words about 2008’s Cloverfield, the cult-classic, found-footage monster romp that reinvented movie marketing for the digital age. But you’re about to read an interview with the director of that movie, Matt Reeves, so I’m sure as hell not stopping now. Not even two minutes after the 58 year-old popped up on Zoom—about a week before the premiere of the HBO series (slash spin-off of his 2022 feature, The Batman), The Penguin, on which he serves as an executive producer—I had to ask about the trailer. Yes, that trailer.
If you’re unfamiliar: Cloverfield’s first preview, which premiered ahead of showings for 2007’s Transformers, didn’t even feature the title of the damn movie. Audiences saw clips of a birthday party from some dude’s camcorder, the Statue of Liberty’s head crashing into the middle of Manhattan, and the release date (1-18-08). The Internet wasn’t yet a place where you could Google answers to this sort of thing; it broke a lot of brains and went viral before you even called anything viral.
“We were still shooting the movie when Transformers came out over the Fourth of July,” Reeves remembers. “So my girlfriend and I went to the [theatre] and we said, ‘Can you let us go in? Because actually there’s a trailer for something that I’m doing.’ And then we went in there and watched the audience respond. It was really cool. But that was so scary for me because we were so early in making the movie. We’re going like, ‘Oh my God, everyone is waiting to see what it is, and we’re still making this movie!’ ”
Fast-forward nearly two decades and—not to criminally breeze past his revered Planet of the Apes trilogy—Reeves has the keys to Gotham. In 2022, he debuted The Batman, which starred Robert Pattinson as the Caped Crusader. And Mr. Wayne’s notoriously hard-to-please fans...really...loved it? Pattinson flashed Batman’s detective chops, Zoë Kravitz shined as a wonderfully sly Catwoman, and Paul Dano delivered a QAnon Riddler who was downright chilling. In fact, the approval rating for Reeves’s Nirvana-coded Batman universe is so damn high that one of its characters—Colin Farrell’s Oz Cobb, aka the Penguin—is about to enjoy the small-screen treatment. Spoiler: Batman loyalists will love it, too. Its many triumphs include Farrell’s unhinged, Batman-fucked-with-Tony Soprano performance and more time in Reeves’s Gotham, which turns out to be far more intertwined with our world than you’d ever think.
In advance of The Penguin’s premiere on Max, Reeves opened up about his Spielbergian origins, his inspiration for the upcoming Batman Part II, and what the hell possesses Colin Farrell when he becomes Oz Cobb.
This interview, presented in Reeves’s own words, has been edited and condensed for clarity.
When I was a kid, I made 8mm movies, like Spielberg. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I actually met J.J. Abrams because we were in an 8mm film festival—we became friends through that. And then we showed our films at a new art theatre in Los Angeles. And Spielberg, who had that experience as a kid, was like, “I need to see these movies.” So they gave the program to him and he watched it. I heard back from his assistant at that time. She said, “He really enjoyed seeing the films. Thanks.” She called again six months later and said, “We just found all of these 8mm films. Because they’ve been in a hot basement for all this time, they need to be repaired. [Spielberg asked,] ‘Can you get them repaired?’ And I was like, ‘Who’s going to do that?’ He goes, ‘Those kids.’
So the war movie that they’re making in The Fabelmans, that’s Escape to Nowhere. That’s one of the films that we re-spliced together for him. We’re just going, “These are Steven Spielberg’s 8mm films!” And we were these kids. It was mind-blowing.
I was born in ’66. I grew up in a period of American film that really was inspiring. There were a lot of American directors who took other genres and subverted them. Chinatown is really a subversion of a noir. It’s funny, because those movies tremendously influenced me—but I don’t think I ever thought that I would be a genre filmmaker. I started in the vein of thinking that I wanted to be someone like Hal Ashby and make these kinds of sad comedies. My first film [The Pallbearer] didn’t light the world on fire. But it was very personal. When you spend your entire youth as a filmmaker, it’s like a bunch of kids who are getting together and they make their first album. If they’re twenty-five, it really took twenty-five years to make. I spent the first twenty-five years of my life making that first movie, and then that didn’t work. I started having opportunities where I was like, “What would it be if I tried to find a personal way into genre filmmaking?” And Cloverfield was one of those movies where it was like, “Okay, I need this to be about my anxiety. What would I do?”
The intense division that there is right now. On the one hand, you say it’s a thing going on in the United States—and obviously Gotham is an American city—but really it’s worldwide. There’s just tremendous division, the way that the world gets its information, its news. Everybody is in their own silo. That sense of the environment of today, where it’s just very easy for people to be completely separate and at complete odds—that’s definitely one of the things that we’re looking at in Gotham. Some of that is just the way that society is, but some of that is intentional—and to the degree that that’s intentional, and how that fits into the larger picture of what the motivations behind that might be, that’s one of the things that we’re exploring as well.
I always said, we’re going to continue [the Penguin’s] story. Initially, the idea was to continue it in the next film. And then when we were talking about doing shows, I was talking to [The Batman producer] Dylan Clark and [HBO heads] Casey Bloys and Sarah Aubrey. Casey said, “Look, I just want to say, I hope you’re not going to save the marquee characters for just the movies. This is HBO.” And I was like, “Okay, let me tell you what this kind of Scarface-esque story is.” It isn’t his origin story. It’s sort of like Batman’s story—the way that I did it—because there’d been so many origin tales. It’s the early days; it’s the origins of all of the rogues’ gallery characters. Because in the comics, those characters make themselves really in reaction to the arrival of this presence, this masked vigilante. So this is almost like a gangster movie. The idea was to see Oz reach for power in this moment.
Colin is a force of nature. He’s just an incredible actor. And the way [designer] Mike Marino transformed him, that unleashed him. My experience with him in the movie and the show is that I feel like that’s another person. It’s uncanny. There’s something incredible going on. The idea was that then we found [showrunner] Lauren [LeFranc], and we started talking about doing this character study—and to talk about that rise and the obstacles of that. And she came in and pitched the story for the pilot, which I loved. It was so illuminating to Oz’s vulnerabilities.
It’s important to me that all of these characters are doing what they’re doing out of personal motivation. I love the comics, but sometimes there’s an oversimplification. One of the things that I thought that we could do in the movie, and then what we did in the series with Lauren, was to make sure that we were looking into something that felt grounded and real in psychology. Obviously, that’s what Riddler is doing. He thinks he’s doing the right thing. In fact, he’s inspired by this vigilante.
Lauren really was the one in the series who came up with that particular take as it related to Oz. All of it really stems from this idea that his ego is such that he desperately wants to be revered. He desperately wants love. And so that sense of wanting the neighbourhood to revere you is to fill that void of never getting enough love....That’s the idea we’re trying to explore in Batman, too. There’s the simplistic version where he sees himself trying to save the city. But what is it he’s coping with psychologically? What happened to him? It’s funny, as Mattson {Tomlin] and I are finishing writing the second movie, the thing that I always think about is how Batman is not just trying to do something for the greater good. It’s the only way he can make sense of his own life. In a way, it’s saving him.
He’s more of a spectre in the city. I really wanted what we did in the first movie, and what we’re doing in the second movie, to be focused on Batman’s arc. A lot of the other movies, once they do their sort of origin tale—which, of course, is Batman and Bruce’s—then they almost pass the baton over to the rogues’ gallery in such a way that their story actually is the story. But I really want this to continue to be a Batman point-of-view series of movies. So one of the things that was really exciting about the opportunity to do a show was to let it really focus on that rogues’ gallery character and change points of view. The whole movie is done very deliberately from Batman and Bruce’s point of view. The only scenes that aren’t from his point of view are from Riddler’s point of view. And that was done to make you think for a moment: Wait, is that Batman’s or Riddler’s point of view? This was like: What if we could just go down that alley and follow Oz in the wake of what happened in the movie?
I was very conscious about wanting to make the Gotham of The Batman a Gotham that was our world. Even though it’s a fictitious city, the idea was that it would be our Gotham. The interesting thing is: I had been approached before Batman and before Planet of the Apes about other franchises, and I couldn’t do them. I turned them down because I was like, “I don’t know what the way is.” I was really fortunate with Apes and with Batman that those two franchises, I can do something where I can connect personally. And then I’m not handcuffed anymore. I can find a path.
As a producer, I make sure that I’m working with people who have that same kind of personal connection to their work so that it isn’t just the IP. That’s not any judgment. For me, that’s survival....That’s what movies are, right? You go to a movie to have this empathic experience where filmmakers and actors put you in the shoes of people who you are not for a period of time. Then you go and experience it through them in this transportive way. To me, that is the ultimate goal. That's what’s exciting to me about movies.
I just love movies so much. Getting that bug as a kid, expressing myself, and having a place to tell stories, it was really an escape from the craziness of growing up, my family, all this kind of stuff. I just hope that that tradition continues. When I was growing up, movies were so important. And now we have to fight to make sure that movies and streaming content—whatever we want to call it, shows—can connect to people so that the next generation can be just as inspired to tell stories. I just hope that that happens, because I’m excited to see what stories younger people have. I want them to tell it with passion.
Originally published on Esquire US
It’s always the same come-on. We’re invited into their lounge, or maybe their bedroom. The vibe is casual, intimate: undone hair, no make-up and lots of eye contact. Then at some point, usually within the first 10 minutes, this fascinating creature will lean in close and, in a whisper, confide. Something like, “I am trying to sort out the wreckage of the past.” (Robbie Williams, 2023.)
Or: “Let me make you a promise: I’ll only tell you my darkest secrets.” (Selena Gomez, 2022.) Or: “As reliable as the rhythmic beating of my own heart is my need to talk to you.” (Bruce Springsteen, 2020.) And, from that point on, it’s done: you’re lost in the celebrity-documentary vortex.
It was in the spring of 2020 that I first realised I’d been sucked in. I’d become increasingly reliant on 1990s basketball analogies to communicate my every emotional state. Luckily, most of my nearest and dearest were also among the 23.8 million who’d recently binge-watched Michael Jordan’s The Last Dance docuseries on Netflix. So, as with the Chicago Bulls’ Big 3 line-up during the crucial 1993 Game 6 play-off against the Phoenix Suns, there was intuitive understanding.
Once upon a time, documentaries were admired as an oasis of integrity in showbiz’s ethical desert. In every other sector of film and television, star-power rules supreme, but the documentarian remained unbiddable and incorruptible, pointing their camera towards the human stories that really matter — war, climate change, injustice, art.
On the rare occasion celebrity was a subject for documentary, it was treated with scepticism, as in Geri, Molly Dineen’s 1999 study of the former Spice Girl, in which the Bafta-winning film-maker can be heard sharply correcting Halliwell’s mistaken belief that she would have “complete control and it will be edited if there’s anything bad”. As if! Even after 2004, when Michael Moore’s Iraq War doc Fahrenheit 9/11 won the Palme d’Or, broke box-office records and ushered in the Golden Age of documentaries, the pay remained stubbornly low and the journalistic standards resolutely high.
Cut forward only a few years, however, and documentary is as enamoured with celebrity as the most scoop-hungry paparazzo. Sit down to select your evening’s entertainment and note that seemingly every athlete, actor and musician of note has a documentary streaming, or one in the works. “I can’t tell you the amount of calls I’ve gotten from celebrities wanting to make their films since Beckham,” says Fisher Stevens, the director of Netflix’s recent hit series about the sarong-sporting football icon.
Stevens has eclectic interests — previous docs have been about dolphin-hunting in Japan (The Cove), toxic relationships (Crazy Love) and anti-Trump politics (The Lincoln Project) — but it’s the celebrity films, he says with a soft chuckle, that slide most smoothly into production. “I think people are fascinated with celebrities, especially those who kind of had a moment and then are still relevant. You get to look back at those periods, the music and styles, and there’s a certain reminiscing and nostalgia… That seems to be what people are wanting.”
Stevens himself is also an actor and a recognisable face, well-known to Succession fans as Hugo, the slippery Waystar RoyCo comms exec. What’s less well-known is his real-life role in shaping the public images of high-profile figures. Prior to Beckham there was 2016’s Bright Lights, a touching portrait of the relationship between Star Wars’ Carrie Fisher and her equally stellar mother Debbie Reynolds, and Before the Flood, which helped rebrand Leonardo DiCaprio from modelising movie star to concerned environmental activist.
Though, in fairness to all parties, it’s clear that was never the film’s primary intention. DiCaprio is only about the sixth-most charismatic person featured in Before the Flood, after several courageous climate scientists and a strident Indian rice farmer. He exerted his star power in a different way, says Stevens. “That was my third or fourth climate-change film and my most seen, because it had Leo.”
Since the rise of the streaming platforms, with their insatiable hunger for new content, the commercial logic behind the celeb-doc boom has only grown more stark. Non-fiction entertainment is much cheaper and quicker to produce than the scripted stuff, requiring no expensive sets, costumes or FX — and certainly no screenwriters or actors with their stroppy union demands.
Yet this kind of programming can be just as popular and just as prestigious. It’s this latter attribute that gives documentary the edge over its reality-TV cousin. Selling Sunset is never going to be rewarded with an Oscar nomination, no matter how artfully Chrishell skirts the edge of a Hollywood Hills infinity pool in her six-inch Louboutins.
Still, there has to be more to it than just “here’s a famous person who has agreed to let us film”, right? Kate Townsend, Netflix’s VP for original feature documentaries and the woman responsible for green-lighting so many of these projects, hopes so. “The most important thing is that we are able to shine a light on issues beyond the individual themselves,” she says of her commissioning criteria. “We’re looking for people who have relatable challenges and complexities in their everyday lives, as well as those special qualities that make them unique […] People have been surprised by the insight these films have offered.”
For Stevens, the presence of these necessary qualities can only become apparent through forging a personal connection. “I want to make this clear about the way I make films: I don’t make them like a journalist. I’m a humanist and I’m a film-maker. I need to feel a connection or it’s just gonna suck.” And by this, he doesn’t mean hanging out and socialising — although there is a bit of that. “I mean, when I’m in a room and there are cameras on you, I need you to be just talking to me and not fucking acting and posing. I don’t want you performing.” This also allows him to ascertain the celebrity’s true reasons for wanting to open up on screen, he says. “It wasn’t until I went out to dinner with David [Beckham] and his wife that I knew… When people get to a certain point in their lives and start to be able to look back, I think it becomes therapeutic.”
There was a similar impulse behind another recent documentary series, Thank You, Goodnight: The Bon Jovi Story, according to its director, Gotham Chopra. “Jon and I are both big fans of the New England Patriots, and he’d seen a series I’d done on [NFL quarterback] Tom Brady. He reached out and said, ‘Hey, you know Tom’s got 20 years of success? I’ve got 40.’ Of course I was interested.”
Chopra’s resulting four-part show makes liberal use of the “Interrotron”, a favourite technique of the celeb doc, first popularised by the esteemed documentary trailblazer Errol Morris when he used it to interview the former US Secretary of Defence Robert McNamara for his Oscar-winning 2003 feature The Fog of War. Despite the Interrotron’s intimidating name — a jokey coinage of Mrs Morris’s — it’s really just a mirror contraption devised to give the illusion of direct audience engagement. “You create eye contact, which makes a huge difference,” explains Chopra. “If you tell a subject, ‘Answer my question, but look at the camera,’ there’s a separation and it becomes performative, versus when they’re engaging, making eye contact and having a human conversation.”
So beware: what feels like a soul-bearing connection between you and the famous person may actually just be a soul-bearing connection between the famous person and a hired camera operator. But, either way, the therapy parallel is inescapable. “That’s what it feels like, a lot,” agrees Chopra. “Many years ago, I worked with [NBA player] Kobe Bryant, and one of the things he said was, ‘This is like therapy!’” And not just a one-off taster session, either: “With Jon [Bon Jovi], the series running time is four hours, but that’s based on hours upon hours upon hours of interviews.”
In addition to all the free therapy, documentaries provide famous folks with a great new way to sideline the frequently unreliable or hostile press. Social media had already opened up that direct line of communication with the public, but in a short-form medium liable to misinterpretation. Far better a 90-minute film — or a 490-minute series — in which to detail your grievances and showcase your talents, without risk of interruption or contradiction. Fine, but what’s in it for the audience? How many of these films would pass my (recently devised) “Last Dance Test For Documentary Impact”? That is, can they take me, the indifferent viewer, and transform her into an invested and passionate subject-area expert faster than Dennis Rodman snatched up rebounds against the Atlanta Hawks in 1997?
In a recent episode of the industry podcast Doc Talk, Lois Vossen, the executive producer of the PBS documentary series Independent Lens, argued for a re-affirmation of journalistic values via a tightening up of terminology. “I don’t want to point fingers, but we take the work seriously in terms of what is a documentary as opposed to what is entertainment,” she told her fellow esteemed panellists. “There is nothing wrong with non-fiction entertainment! It is fabulous! I’ve had some of my best Friday nights watching non-fiction entertainment! The Greatest Night in Pop on Netflix [about the recording of the 1985 charity single “We Are The World”] is so much fun to watch […] But everything is now labelled ‘a documentary’. Some of it is, in fact, non-fiction entertainment.”
Yet even within these less-exacting boundaries, some celebrities — or rather, their publicity teams — seem to fundamentally misunderstand the “entertainment” bit. Take that aforementioned piece of Netflix non-fic-ent. It’s Lionel Richie who has the most screen time and the producer credit, and he collaborated with the film-makers to bring together all the big names — just as he did back in 1985. But it’s not Lionel Richie who comes out of it looking the coolest. That would be ever-the-outlaw Waylon Jennings, who walks off mid-chorus. Nor is it Lionel Richie who makes for the most compelling viewing. That would be publicity-averse Bob Dylan, shifting around uncomfortably amid all the showbiz schmoozing as if he’d rather be somewhere — anywhere — else. And neither Dylan nor the late Jennings appears as an interviewee.
Documentary royalty Ken Burns, for one, intends to hold us all to a much higher standard than mere entertainment. Back in April 2020, the two-time-Oscar-nominated film-maker responsible for such exhaustive and authoritative works as The Civil War (1990) and Country Music (2019) publicly criticised the involvement of Michael Jordan’s Jump 23 company in The Last Dance — a series ostensibly about the Chicago Bulls’ 1997–1998 NBA season, but really about Michael Jordan and what a virile, sporting demigod he is. “If you are there influencing the very fact of it getting made, it means certain aspects that you don’t necessarily want in aren’t going to be in, period,” Burns told The Wall Street Journal. “And that’s not the way you do good journalism… and it’s certainly not the way you do good history.”
In The Last Dance’s defence, the director Jason Hehir cited the necessity for access. Clearly, without Jordan — who also held the rights to the 1997–98 season archive footage — there could be no docuseries.
But I know a man who disagrees. “It was never the plan to speak to Michael Jordan,” says Yemi Bamiro, the south-London-based director of eight documentaries, including the Chuck D-fronted Fight the Power and 2020’s One Man and His Shoes — the best film about basketball that isn’t actually about basketball. “When we were trying to get money for it, that’s all anyone would ever ask us: ‘Have you got Michael Jordan?’, ‘Have you spoken to Michael Jordan?’” Not only did Bamiro not seek out a meeting with the big man, he was actively avoiding him: “We were actually really scared that he might catch wind of the film and try to shut it down.”
Since Bamiro’s focus was not Jordan’s basketball career but his most-lucrative marketing deal — the Air Jordan trainers — he put his energy instead into securing interviews with people such as the Nike marketing exec Sonny Vaccaro and the bereaved mother of a young man murdered over a pair of Air Jordans. This meant One Man and His Shoes had to be entirely self-funded, but the indirect approach also resulted in a well-rounded, multi-faceted portrait of — if not the man himself — the wide-ranging impact of his fame and legacy. It worked so well, in fact, that a similar, Jordan-omitting story structure was later adopted by Air, the starry Hollywood drama featuring Matt Damon as Sonny Vaccaro, Viola Davis as Jordan’s mother and Damian Young as the back of Jordan’s head (because that’s as much of him as ever appears on screen). This time, though, the film was made with Jordan’s blessing, and several script revisions were done at his request.
Notably, Air director Ben Affleck is not afforded the same degree of privacy or autonomy in his wife Jennifer Lopez’s latest self-funded documentary, The Greatest Love Story Never Told. He appears on camera multiple times, including in one scene in which he wryly points out the otherwise unacknowledged irony of that title: “If you’re making a record about it… that seems kinda like telling it.” Yet even he of the “Depressed Ben Affleck Smoking” meme could not fail to be won over by J Lo’s exuberant self-belief eventually.
Her documentaries — for there are several — make an artistic virtue of their self-financed, self-produced status. Like many other sex symbols of the 1990s and 2000s, Lopez is engaged in wrestling back control of her own narrative from male-dominated media and entertainment industries. Docs like J Lo’s and Framing Britney Spears (2021), Beyoncé: Life Is But a Dream (2013) and Taylor Swift’s Miss Americana (2020) implicitly ask us to also reflect on the culture of sexism that may have gone unnoticed in the not-so-distant past.
Julia Nottingham, who has produced several films in this vein, including the timely Coleen Rooney: The Real Wagatha Story and the superlative Pamela: A Love Story, feels that trust-based collaboration is the only way to work with stars. She compares the films made by her Dorothy St Pictures company to the glossy, authorised autobiography that has pride of place in the bookshop window display. “And obviously, when you go to the autobiographies, there are ones that are ghost-written, there are ones that are actually written; there’s a whole host of them…”
But wouldn’t you rather read that than the trashy, unauthorised, likely part-fanfic biography, found on a lower shelf with a reduced sticker? “We always want the most authentic version,” says Nottingham. “I’m definitely not interested in the Pamela Anderson story that’s told by commentators and full of pundits, because you don’t get the truth.” And there is a feminist subtext here, too: “Like, not to get too personal, but my mum is a divorced woman in her seventies, and watching the Pamela film boosted her confidence. It gave her a spring in her step!”
In other cases, a rigorously independent film-maker is a necessary prerequisite for any genuine reckoning with the past. Kevin Macdonald bristles at the suggestion that his recent film High & Low: John Galliano might be mistaken for “a celebrity puff piece [or] part of a campaign to rehabilitate” the disgraced fashion designer. Indeed, the documentary opens with a replay of the now-notorious 2011 footage of Galliano spewing anti-semitic abuse at strangers in a Paris bar, which remains as shocking as ever. “I thought, did they [early critics of the film] ever actually watch it? Because that’s really not what this film is.”
High & Low was funded by an independent French financier with Macdonald’s final cut written into the contract, and he commends Galliano for being amenable to this arrangement: “It was quite a long flirtation, but once he’d decided, he never brought a PR to a meeting. He never said ‘This is off-limits’. [It was] ‘You can ask anything that you want.’ When he saw the cut — which, contractually, I had to show him for factual accuracy — he made a couple of points like, ‘That’s not a couture dress, it was actually prêt-à-porter — how dare you?’, but he didn’t say a thing about anything else. And I was really amazed by that, because it’s very personal, obviously, and really impacts his life.”
Macdonald admits there was likely some ego involved in Galliano’s decision to participate. “I think part of his agenda was, ‘Well, Alexander McQueen has a really great film about him [Ian Bonhôte’s “zero-access” 2018 documentary, though hardly surprising as McQueen died in 2010]. Why don’t I? Because I’m also a great designer.’”
Do I detect a haughty undertone to Macdonald’s well-bred Scottish accent? If so, it’s well-earned. As the director of Whitney (2018) and Marley (2012), Macdonald can be fairly considered a master of the form, alongside Asif Kapadia, the director of Amy (2015), Senna (2010) and an upcoming Roger Federer doc for Prime Video, reportedly in collaboration with the tennis champion himself. [This story was written before the release of 12 Final Days in June].
What will be the exact nature of Federer’s involvement? Will he have any say on the edit? No idea, because Kapadia did not reply to my request for an interview. Now, in the spirit of the tell-all, let me be transparent: there is an earlier draft of this feature in which I’ve used this paragraph to avenge that minor slight, by heavily and unfairly insinuating that the admired documentarian has sold out to Big Streaming, but wiser heads at Esquire prevailed. Take note, Robbie Williams, Michael Jordan and other score-settling celebs: this is how a truly empowered and independent editor can save you from your own pettiness and improve the final product.
Kevin Macdonald, on the other hand, is here to defend himself against such insinuations, and does so with vigour: “I look at the many films on Netflix and elsewhere, which are produced by the stars in question, and I think, ‘Hang on a minute, why are you attacking me?’” he continues. “When I’m raising really complicated, difficult issues, and where the star in question has no say over the film and there’s no financial connection… And yet you give David Beckham a completely free pass, because you want to see inside his garage!”
On that last count, we’re mostly guilty as charged. I know I wouldn’t mind a glimpse inside Beckham’s garage, not least to check whether Victoria’s dad’s old Rolls-Royce — the subject of Beckham’s most famous, British-class-system-dismantling scene — is now parked there. But Macdonald raises a more important point. When both the puff pieces and the serious documentaries look the same, stream on the same platforms and sometimes even have the same directors, how are we, the cultured consumers, supposed to tell the difference?
Macdonald says he knows where the all-important line is and — pardon the name-drop — it was Mick Jagger who showed him. Macdonald had just finished making One Day in September, his 1999 Oscar-winning documentary about the terrorist attack on the 1972 Munich Olympics, when he got the call: “‘Would you be interested making a film with Mick Jagger?’ And I’m like, ‘That sounds like the most frivolous, fun thing in the world!’” Hanging out on yachts with a rock legend was as fun as expected, but then came the time to put the film together. “He saw it and he didn’t like it, and basically got it re-edited.” The 60-minute film (or rather, “promotional tool to sell CDs”, according to one review) eventually aired on America’s ABC network to low ratings and a baffled Thanksgiving-night audience. “That was my wake-up call. I thought, ‘I don’t want that to happen again. It’s too painful.’ So from then on, I’ve always had final cut.”
Certainly what emerges from watching High & Low is a sense of mutual, artist-to-artist respect. Galliano would no more interfere in Macdonald’s film-making than he would abide interference in his own Maison Margiela autumn/winter 2024 collection. “I think John is smart. He said to me, right at the beginning, ‘I know some people are never going to forgive me, but I want people to understand me.’ And I think that is a subtle, but important difference.”
If it’s our understanding these celebrities want, then they’ve got it. Facilitating understanding, as opposed to judgement, also seems a noble enough goal for the documentarian. But after watching hours and hours of these films — after seeing Ricky Hatton crying into his cuppa, Taylor Swift reading aloud from her teenage diaries and Steve Martin taking his laundry to the dry-cleaners — I’m disturbed to realise that the feeling goes beyond mere “understanding”. I’m ready to take a bullet for these poor, misunderstood souls.
As both the director of numerous biographical docs and the son of the New Age thinker Deepak Chopra, Gotham Chopra has a theory: “You start to hear that music, like [Bon Jovi’s 1986 album] Slippery When Wet, and it does bring you back, but I think underneath there’s also a character story that’s mythic and archetypal. Because, at a certain level, everybody is talented. It’s actually the grit, the resilience, the work ethic that leads to the success. And I think there’s something relatable, but also aspirational, to that.”
So maybe the free therapy provided by these films isn’t only working for the celebrities. Maybe it’s working for us, too. This might mean, as Chopra suggests, treating these docs as audio-visual self-help manuals to live by. Or it might mean a chance to relive and reflect on our own pasts through the celebrity’s carefully curated archive. We’re watching Take That rolling around in jelly but, simultaneously, we’re remembering who we were when we first saw Take That rolling around in jelly. So when you think about it, Jon Bon Jovi really was looking deep into my eyes, speaking straight to my heart, after all. Interrotron, be damned.
Originally published on Esquire UK
"War. War never changes." While we don't hear those iconic lines from Ron Perlman, we do get to hear the familiar crooning of The Ink Spots' "I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire" played over the aftermath of a nuclear fallout. Adapted from the video game series of the same name by Bethesda Game Studios, we follow Lucy (played by Ella Purnell), a descendent of the survivors who took refuge in fallout bunkers aka Vaults, as she venture out of her place of safety into the Wasteland once known as Los Angeles.
We're in the golden age of video game adaptations. While it's an adaptation for the online streaming platform Prime Video, the trailer looks like its staying faithful to its source material. Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy, the showrunners for Westworld, are helming this adaptation. We see the Vaults and its inhabitants; the Brotherhood of Steel; plenty of Vault Boy bobbleheads (is the series setting up an easter egg hunt for the viewers?); a lot of retro goodness; a trusty canine companion and ghouls. Well, a ghoul played by Walton Goggins. We saw no indication of mutants but according to Bethesda Game Studios producer Todd Howard, who directed various games in the series, the series is set in the same continuity as the game. So, we may see the appearance of mutants or even Deathclaws.
But the one thing that we saw that was really encouraging—the wry humour. Evident in the games, there's humour in a devastated future. And why not? A little laughter helps get you through the bad times.
So, for those who are waiting for the next Fallout game, the Prime Video's series will scratch that itch. It's expected to be released on 11 April, one day earlier than it was previously announced.
War never changes. And in this context, maybe it's for the best.
Fallout will be released only on Prime 11 April.
Some people tune in to the Super Bowl for the football. (Sorry—tennis and basketball have my heart.) For me [Editor's note: And for the rest of the world that's not the US], America's largest sporting event is all about the commercials and trailers. The questions [...] have nothing to do with quarterbacks, betting odds, or even Taylor Swift. I just want to know who will eat the new Doritos flavour, OK? Also: which celebrity will talk to to the E-TRADE baby. One more: which former athlete (probably Gronk) will sing on top of a pool full of White Claw.
This year's slate of commercials features brand and celebrity partnerships so outrageous that they seem selected by a randomiser. Chris Pratt grows out his Super Mario moustache for Pringles, Eric André tries to pass through airport security with a bag full of Drumstick ice cream, Dan Marino reps both Michelob ULTRA and M&M's, and the Beckhams promote the big "baseball game" for Uber Eats. We're off to a great start.
Here's a rundown of the best commercials we've seen so far.
Super Bowl halftime performer Usher and actor Christopher Walken feature in a new BMW ad titled, "Talkin Like Walken." In the commercial, everyone is doing Christopher Walken impressions. "Don't you got somewhere to be?" a frustrated Walken asks Usher.
This year, LL Cool J is the conductor of the—wait for it—"Chill Train," for Coors Light. Apparently, he's delivering chill vibes across the country. Recent Grammy winner Lainey Wilson also makes an appearance in the ad.
The Scrubs duo sing to Jason Momoa about the wonders of T-Mobile cable in a new commercial for the home cable and internet provider. Naturally, Momoa shows them up with his own singing skills.
"What if one of the biggest moves of Super Bowl Sunday was taxes?" asks Abbott Elementary's Quinta Brunson. The ad—where we'll presumably hear the answer—is directed by Taika Waititi.
I'm not going to lie: I did think there was a "T" in Skechers. Either way, now there is... sort of. Mr T is here, people, and he loves the new slip-on Skechers. "I pity the fool that has to touch his shoes to put them on," he says.
[Editor's note: The author's original copy is about Paramount+ in the US. As our IP address is unable to hook to the US embedded video, the text seems moot. Good thing that Paramount has some sense (of humour) as it has a UK & Ireland version that we can watch. Fittingly enough, it begins with "Meanwhile, on the other side of Paramount Mountain...")]
Tina Fey sends body doubles out into the world to check out hotels for her in person. That would be a cool service in real life if it was offered, but the ad does give us cameos from Jane Krakowski, Jack McBrayer, and Glenn Close.
Aubrey Plaza rides a dragon in the new Mountain Dew Baja Blast ad. [Editor's note: And she gets to use her trademark deadpan in all sorts of situations, which include riding on a dragon.]
Jeremy Renner sings "I Got You (I Feel Good)" in this ad for Silk almond milk alongside his daughter, where he throws a wooden spoon so hard that it goes through the carton. I just want him to bring the Jeremy Renner app back.
"Ironically, it is the cold brew that births the fire-breathing dragon," says Anthony Hopkins in the new STōK ad. He's getting ready for his toughest role yet: Wrex the Dragon, the soccer team mascot from Welcome to Rexham.
What if a horse and a dog were friends? That's the question Budweiser has asked for years at the Super Bowl, and it's always been charming.
I'll take any excuse to see Ronald Gladden on my television again, even if it's in a cosmetics ad for the big game.
Ken Jeong is unfrozen in time in a world that apparently had never invented the chicken wing. Crazy! That's even worse than that Everything Everywhere All at Once reality where everyone has hot dog fingers.
In one of the most mysterious ads for the event, Addison Rae is teaching somehow to dance while eating NERDS. Who could it be? A nerd, perhaps?
I wouldn't recommend drinking beer before running a marathon, but somehow I believe that if anyone could do it, it would be Rob Riggle.
Yup, you read that right. Kawasaki has an ad this year where coming in contact with their new Ridge off-roader gives you a mullet instantly, even if you're an eagle or a bear.
There's a lot going on in this one—even aside from the all-caps "MY DAD HAD A ROLLS ROYCE" shirt. The whole bit is a play on the viral scene from Netflix's Beckham, where David made Victoria concede that she did not grow up in a working-class family. Now, they've forgotten what sport their big commercial is for. Baseball? Hockey? Either way, Jessica, er... Jennifer Aniston will be there, too.
Who earned Chris Pratt the big bucks? Mario, Garfield, or Mr. Pringle?
I can't tell if Post Malone is just at a party where everyone has Bud Light, or if he's also an anthropomorphic beer bottle with arms and a head sticking out of that limo. Either way, Posty is also singing "America the Beautiful" before kickoff.
Finally, the Doritos ad! Looks like the chips nabbed Jenna Ortega this year for their new flavor, "Dinamita." Hold on while I try to guess what "Dinamita" tastes like.
Messi, Sudeikis, and Marino are simply having a great time on the beach together, drinking Michelob ULTRA. Solid.
We have a new Hellman's mascot: Mayo Cat. The gist? The cat says "Mayo" and not "Meow." And that's how a star is born.
PSA: M&M's is planning to crush peanut butter into a diamond—you know, to make a Super Bowl ring. It'll bring comfort to almost-champions like Marino, who never won the real thing on the big day. Perfect. Great idea. I want one, too.
"We're three great athletes" Vaughn jokes, before Brady mentions that the actor tripped just walking into the room. I'd bet that this trio has more quips saved for the big game. (Sorry.)
Drumstick's first-ever Super Bowl ad will see the TSA confiscating Eric André's ice cream. There's also a little guy named Dr. Umstick involved... somehow.
Arnett has long been the voice of Reese's, but now the chocolate and peanut butter candy is making a "big change" on game day.
Ice Spice is pretty worried about running into her ex at a bar. Hopefully, it's not the Starry mascot from last year, which was slurped up by Keke Palmer.
Red Alert! Kris Jenner is stacking Oreo's on top of each other.
Arnold Schwarzenegger plays Agent State Farm in a Marvel-esque action film that I hope is someday made into a full movie.
Originally published on Esquire US
After the monumental success of Avengers: Endgame, I remember wondering, like many people, what Marvel could possibly do to follow up such a cultural juggernaut. How could they raise the stakes or stage bigger battles? What else was left to explore?
Then, in the trailer for Spiderman: Far From Home, after Tom Holland’s Peter Parker learns from Nick Fury that Quentin Beck is “from Earth, just not ours,” Peter asks with nervous excitement, “You’re saying there’s a multiverse?”
Yes, Peter, there is—well, I’m not sure if there are actually parallel worlds adjacent to ours, but in terms of contemporary storytelling? There are multiverses everywhere. There is, if you will, a multiverse of multiverses.
To name just a few, there’s the Academy Award-sweeping film Everything Everywhere All at Once, the popular sci-fi cartoon Rick & Morty, Amazon’s Philip K. Dick adaptation of The Man in the High Castle, Apple’s space race alternate history For All Mankind, the sprawling DC and Marvel franchises, and even onward to novels like Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life, Lauren Beukes’s Bridge, Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library, and Iain Pears’ Arcadia. In recent years, tales of adjacent realms and alternate timelines have become more and more pervasive in popular culture.
Of course, stories involving alternate timelines, what-ifs, and speculative histories are nothing new (in fact, as we’ll see, they long predate the scientific theories that explain them). What, after all, is Dickens’s Ghost of Christmas Future but a glimpse into a multiverse? Because Scrooge heeded the three ghosts’ warnings, the vision shown to him by that ghost wouldn’t come to pass, meaning that this dark timeline is either an illusion conjured by the spirit or an alternate version of Scrooge’s life. The same can be said of It’s a Wonderful Life, the multiple finales to the film adaptation of Clue, the Gwyneth Paltrow romance Sliding Doors (and its precursor, the Polish film Blind Chance), and the ‘90s cult show Sliders.
But the cluster of multiverse narratives of the past decade has not just technically been multiverse stories. They’ve been explicitly multiverse stories—as in, they employ the scientific language that originated with the theory. They are directly inspired by the Many Worlds Interpretation, not merely tapping into the kinds of emotional desires that the multiverse offers.
For God’s sake, Marvel’s recent spate of ten films, eleven shows, and two shorts (and many more on the way) are collectively referred to as the Multiverse Saga. Even more significant, though, is how, much like time travel, the multiverse as a storytelling device began as a nifty concept and eventually deepened into a fruitful (and quickly overused) tool to explore things deeper and closer to home. What began as an esoteric theory and a heady narrative device has become as mainstream and emotionally resonant as any cinematic trope.
But as soon as an idea enters the zeitgeist and then the upper echelons of corporate IP, it gets flattened by the cynical and crass exploitation of pandering and profit hunting. The seven Oscars awarded to Everything Everywhere All at Once probably mark the apex of our current multiverse saga, now that the DC and Marvel films lashed to this subject have become increasingly unsuccessful, bombing at the box office and engendering some heavy animosity from fans. The multiverse has gone from an obscure theory to a sci-fi trope to a popular mainstream conceit to an underwhelming excuse for fan service of the crassest kind.
Paul Halpern’s new book, The Allure of the Multiverse: Extra Dimensions, Other Worlds, and Parallel Universes, regales us with the history of the concept—from Pythagorean cosmology to quantum mechanics—in scientific terms. With his insight and expertise, perhaps we can illuminate the social side of the story. Why has the multiverse emerged so ubiquitously in the past decade? What mode of contemporary life does it capture? Why did it catch on so infectiously? And why does it seem to be crashing just as dramatically?
The multiverse as a theoretical concept fittingly has numerous origins. Science—particularly high-level physics—relies on brilliant thinkers intertwining each other’s ideas into a cosmic braid of impenetrable complexity. As The Allure of the Multiverse makes clear, radical and counterintuitive theories like the multiverse—also called the Many Worlds Interpretation, parallel realities, etc.—arise out of a series of breakthroughs, insights, discoveries, and audacious leaps of logic. It typifies, in many ways, the highest level of human thought.
But the multiverse as a metaphoric concept has been nestled inside our ponderous and rueful psychology for as long as humanity has possessed a psychology. Our unique self-awareness, responsible for our physically fragile species’ global dominance, also causes our unique melancholy: we know that we have only one life. And what a precious life it is. The more exposure a person has to the bewildering and intricate enormity of existence, the more one is keenly attuned to the infinitesimal capriciousness of one’s place in it. As Richard Dawkins elegantly put it in the opening of Unweaving the Rainbow:
We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here.
Imagine, then, knowing how much it has taken for us to be born and how easily it may not have happened. The pressure this awareness places on our one precious life! It is miraculous to even draw breath at all—now what are we going to do with this gift?
Mostly, not a whole lot. Remember, it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here. We can’t all be winners, kid.
And so we’re left, at the end of our days, with regrets and musings about alternative paths, convinced our benighted fate was not inevitable, but rather the result of a misstep, a wrong door, a left instead of a right. Who might we have been? What other choices might we have made? Could we have lived a better, more fulfilling life? Or might our circumstances have been worse? The hypothetical versions of ourselves we invent in our minds may not outnumber the sand grains of Arabia, but maybe, like, Cocoa Beach?
The multiverse, then, in addition to attesting to human ingenuity, also represents the most fundamental aspect of the human condition. The multiverse lives in the depths of our minds and our hearts.
In the preface to the revised edition of his 1969 novel The Eternal Champion, legendary sci-fi author Michael Moorcock claims to have coined the word multiverse in his first novel, The Sundered Worlds (1965). He didn’t. That distinction belongs to William James, the philosopher, psychologist, and brother to novelist Henry James, who invented the term to characterise the ambivalence of existence. “A moral multiverse,” he wrote in his 1895 essay “Is Life Worth Living?”, “and not a moral universe.” What Moorcock did was provide the word with the meaning we’ve become so familiar with: “an infinite number of slightly different versions of reality,” as he puts it.
Before Moorcock’s influential usage, the theory languished in the physics world under many different names. Attempts by sci-fi writers to christen the multiverse were similarly unsuccessful, though not always because their entries were inferior. Take Philip Jose Farmer’s The Maker of Universes (1965), published the same year as Moorcock’s debut, in which a man uses a magic horn to travel between “tiers,” or “world upon world piled upon each other like the landings of a sky-piercing mountain.” The novel’s front cover declares it “the many-levelled cosmos,” which is a lovely phrase I quite enjoy. As wonderful as it is, it’s not quite portable enough. Perhaps in another universe…
The contexts for the two origins of the word “multiverse” are worth a brief detour, as they afford some convenient insights into the heart of the concept itself. The subject of the essay in which William James coined the word multiverse was optimism and pessimism. Optimism here does not refer to a generally positive outlook, as we mean today, but rather a philosophy championed by Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz in his 1710 work Theodicy and popularised by Alexander Pope’s Essay on Man.
This optimism addresses the problem of evil in theology by arguing that our reality has been chosen by God from a selection of “all possible worlds.” Our reality may contain evil and sin and suffering, but according to Leibniz, realities without the bad stuff are not any better. Ours is, in an infamous phrase, “the best of all possible worlds.” This is an early example of the multiverse, albeit one that exists only in the mind of God. The notion of alternate realms can be found all over philosophical and theological thought.
On the other hand, when Moorcock discusses his use of the multiverse in his novels, he waxes giddy about its storytelling utility. He can narratively “deal in non-linear terms with versions of perception” and create “simplified models of ideal worlds (for which large numbers of people in Western society yearn so nostalgically),” allowing him to consider “by what particular injustices they might be maintained.” Right away, Moorcock saw the treasure trove of metaphoric largesse the multiverse granted a novelist—how the vast expanse of the cosmos could be used to explore the innermost depths of the human soul.
Comic books, those precocious nieces and nephews of genre fiction, similarly grasped the potential of the multiverse. Consider, for instance, the origin of DC’s Barry Allen, a “police scientist” who becomes the second iteration of the Flash (the first being Jay Garrick from the 1940s comics). Barry Allen’s introduction occurred in Showcase #4 from October 1956; in it, Barry is shown reading a comic book featuring his idol, the Jay Garrick Flash (referred to as the Golden Age Flash). So when he’s quite coincidentally struck by lightning and also doused with chemicals, gaining superhuman speed, he names himself after his hero.
DC cleverly incorporated their earlier era into their new one. But in 1961, Garner Fox wrote an issue of The Flash called “Flash of Two Worlds.” In his wonderfully informative book The Physics of Superheroes, James Kakalios explores this story as an introduction to quantum mechanics; he writes, “it was revealed that the Silver Age Flash [Barry] and the Golden Age Flash both existed, but on parallel Earths, separated by a ‘vibrational barrier.’” The explanation is that Barry “accidentally vibrated at superspeed at the exact frequency necessary to cross over” to what they refer to as Earth-2.
“Flash of Two Worlds” was a hit, and as companies are wont to do, DC repeated the formula over and over, increasing the number of Earths each time, now with Earth-3, Earth-S, Earth-X, and Earth-Prime (our reality), culminating finally in 1985’s massive crossover “Crisis on Infinite Earths,” which, like Moorcock, emphasised the utility of the multiverse for the practicalities of narrative.
The major comic event was orchestrated, as Kakalios puts it, to “normalise the multiverse,” a “vast housecleaning of continuity… to weed out poor sellers from many of the less-popular worlds and bring all the heroes from the best-selling titles together on one Earth.” Executive editor Dick Giordano wrote a memo listing the fallen characters (which included Barry Allen), commanding, mafioso-like, “they should never be seen again, nor should they be referred to in story.”
What unites DC’s coldblooded housecleaning and Moorcock’s pragmatism is their sense of testing out the utility of multiversal plots. Each had found a new mode of narrative and were keen to stretch its limitations. But in the scientific community, the theory of the multiverse remained a subject of much derision; it wouldn’t become an accepted mainstream notion until the ‘90s. Thus these stories, which incorporated a version of the actual physics concept rather than merely a hypothetical, had niche audiences.
For all their innovations with the multiverse, from coining the term to crafting it into novels and expanding the world of superheroes, none of these figures fully realised the notion of infinite realities as an avenue to richly scrutinise the pitiful and helpless exercise of wondering what might have been.
If you wanted to explore the emotional possibilities of the multiverse before the 21st century, you did so without mention of any quantum mechanics or general relativity. Instead, you severed the idea from any esoteric mumbo-jumbo that might catapult your novel or film into nerdy territory. Because anything nerdy, for a long time, wasn’t considered emotionally evocative or even representative of typical human experience. Nerds, like the multiverse, existed on the fringes.
The multiverse was born for me when, as an early 20-something reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, I was startled by the famous passage about the fig tree. Esther, the protagonist, a 19-year-old aspiring writer, contemplates the innumerable choices that lay before her by comparing them to figs falling from a tree she’s sitting under, each one representing “a wonderful future [that] beckoned and winked.”
“One fig,” she writes, “was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor.” Other figs are exotic places she could travel, lovers she might take, ambitions she may pursue. And while this seems like a particularly envious position for a young kid to be in (each of her hypotheticals is a good scenario), Esther is instead filled with prophetic fear:
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
As a young adult, I couldn’t have understood the pangs of remorse given off by older people looking back on an imperfect life. But I could absolutely fathom the frightening prospect of future remorse. Plath’s evocation of paralyzing choices and the many lives those choices might lead to struck a chord with me. For the first time, I grasped the insane caprice of the human condition: how every YES inherently implies a NO to everything else. As the priest says in Charlie Kaufman’s film Synecdoche, New York, “There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose.”
While we’re on the subject of Synecdoche, New York, isn’t the central conceit of that film that the obsessive recreation of life into art leads to a concerning inability to tell the difference between the two? When we make art, don’t we effectively create multiverses in which we make a different decision or kiss a different person or move to a different city or pursue another career?
Art allows us a peek into the multiverse. Take poetry, for example—it abounds with the mournful, melancholic, and mopey among us pondering the possibilities of passed-over paths. A.E. Housman laments “the land of lost content” made up of “blue remembered hills” in a lyric in A Shropshire Lad (1896), which employs landscapes as its metaphorical terrain, as does Robert Frost’s infamous poem “The Road Not Taken,” from Mountain Interval (1916) twenty years later.
Neither Housman’s blue hills nor Frost’s forking roads feature any suppositions about their might-have-beens—only the utterly human tragedy of regret, our tendency to agonise over our decisions and blame the caprice of causality for all of our problems. The multiverse, in its most basic sense, is about our perpetual unhappiness.
The multiverse, in its most basic sense, is about our perpetual unhappiness.
This is why the multiverse is an immensely appealing device in fiction. But it's also why it’s ultimately unsatisfactory as a means of narrative self-exploration. The multiverse is too multi. Human beings can’t accommodate notions like infinity. Moreover, our lives don’t hinge on endless possibilities but rather on starker binaries like Frost’s splitting roads. Our regrets are small, in the grand scheme of things. And any attempt to extend our regrets into cosmic proportions tilts the realm of human meaning somewhere bewilderingly distant from what we understand.
This accounts for why an otherwise uninspired romantic comedy that was a minor hit in 1998 can coin a phrase that’s persisted in culture for much longer than any of the details of the film itself. Sliding Doors articulated and named humanity’s relationship to the multiverse. We obsess over missed connections, either/or scenarios, door #1 or #2, yes or no, stay or go.
Tales of two outcomes of the same moment entice us, but more options added to the menu tend to overwhelm us emotionally, leaving only our intellectual side intact. Ricky & Morty succeeds because it aims at our brains, revelling in cleverness. But a version of Sliding Doors with three, four, 10, Gwyneth Paltrows would undercut the personal stakes for us.
Multiverse stories can, in fact, diminish their own narrative stakes, particularly in franchises. Corporate studios see the multiverse as an opportunity to expand the scope of their IP. They bring in characters from past cinematic universes, as in Dr. Strange and the Multiverse of Madness, The Flash, and Spider-Man: No Way Home. In this last example, the Spider-Man films featuring Toby Maguire and Andrew Garfield are now MCU canon. As film critic Clarisse Loughrey observed, the multiverse, for major studios, doesn’t lie in its “creative potential,” but “its cameos.”
More significantly: an endless series of universes means that any character’s death is impermanent, that all dire circumstances are reparable, and that all possibilities tend to equate to no possibilities. This last idea can be summarised by a line from a superhero movie: the recurring theme of Brad Bird’s The Incredibles (2004) is if everyone is special, then specialness loses its specialness and thus no one is special. Specialness is defined by contrast to regularity, just as the weight of our life choices is tied to the limited amount of alternatives we perceive.
Of course, it’s true that at any moment, we can radically change our lives. This means that for any given scenario in which we see only two options, there are in truth many paths we could take. Gwyneth Paltrow could have been hit by the train, too. Our minds ignore these possibilities because we aren’t fully aware of them (who, after all, thinks, Well, I could have turned left at that light or I could have done doughnuts in the intersection until the cops showed?). Just as we aren’t conscious of the millions of coincidences that don’t happen, only the rare ones that do.
What we’re less inclined to enjoy are multiverses with many scenarios where we lose our cosmic footing. Ironically, the MCU’s move to the multiverse—which seemed like such an inspired way to up the ante from Thanos’s threat to half of one universe to a vast war involving infinite ones—had the opposite effect: it flattened the stakes, making them more representative of corporate mergers than insightful explorations of personal potential.
In physics, the multiverse is a fascinating concept that lends theoretical support to other unexplained phenomena of existence. But in our daily lives, a multiverse is mostly meaningless. We cannot consider every possibility, or even many of them; indeed, keeping mental tabs on a single branch (which itself branches again and again) is pretty much impossible. If the multiverse were proven to be real, our natural proclivity for minor regrets would render the world more suited to the scope of our tiny, insignificant lives, which are also—to us—the most important in the universe.
Theories explain; metaphors reflect.
The multiverse, as a theory, emerged because of some as-yet-unexplained problems resolving Einstein’s general relativity with the mysteries of quantum mechanics, not because our hearts are filled with longing and regret. It seeks to account for certain aspects of reality. Whatever emotional implications it also evokes are beside the point. Relativity, quantum physics, infinities—these are beyond our capacities.
But the chance to investigate the many ways our lives could have gone by vivisecting seemingly arbitrary decisions? That is as appealing to people as pondering the ability to stop time, to fly, or to make the right choice in the first place. But these multiverse fictions are not legitimate attempts to explain our current state. Instead, they represent our feelings about our current state. When you’re at your most joyful, you don’t waste time relitigating past choices—unless it’s to marvel over how lucky you’ve been.
Rather, you bathe in the present moment, content that in all the infinite possibilities of this vast, eternal, and relentlessly enigmatic universe, that out of the millions of strings attached to every action, that in the teeth of such stupefying odds, you’ve managed to eke out a sliver of life that gives you purpose and pleasure. Those mired in miserable circumstances are much more likely to sift through their timelines to locate potential missteps. The multiverse, then, explains more about our self-regard than it does the vagaries of light and gravity and particles and waves.
People are filled with regret and weighted by creativity. So we can conjure up invented selves with a magician’s ease, but only for so long. Very quickly our ideas run their course, mostly because we aren’t personally invested in worlds where we’re made of paint or have hot dog fingers or are controlled by the Nazis. These are too far-fetched to be anything but thought experiments, emotionally inert and pragmatically irrelevant.
But give us a missed train or an unrequited love or an untaken journey, and we’ll dedicate much of our lives to concocting stories in which we got things right, found our passions, and chased our dreams, as if it were possible for us to say, as E. E. Cummings once wrote, “there’s a hell / of a good universe next door; lets go.”
Originally published on Esquire US
This story contains spoilers for the season finale of The Last of Us but not the video game, The Last of Us Part II. You're safe. (For now.)
Grizzled fans of The Last of Us, we have some big news. Season 2 of the post-apocalyptic series will reportedly continue to follow the plot of the game closely, which will have massive ramifications for those who know exactly what goes down between Joel (Pedro Pascal) and Ellie (Bella Ramsey) in the second installment. "If that does take place in the show," Ramsey told Esquire in our cover story, "I don’t know that I’m emotionally ready for it."
In the first season of the HBO series, the unlikely duo of Joel and Ellie set out on a cross-country trip to find a cure for a deadly fungal infection that turns victims into zombies. (We're simplifying, we know.) It proved to be a smash hit—even setting viewership records during its 2023 airing. The series also managed to keep fans of its source material, 2013's The Last of Us video game, relatively happy with its faithful retelling of its dark, emotional story.
According to our 2023 interview with Pascal, the adaptation will remain true to the game in season 2 "like entirely, I think." The actor added in Esquire's accompanying "Explain This" video that, "It wouldn’t make sense to follow the first game so faithfully only to stray severely from the path. Now, more recently, on the red carpet at Sundance Film Festival for the premiere of his new film, Freaky Tales, Pascal told Deadline that the showrunners are, "always going to find ways to build on the incredible source material that they have, and surprise us with how they can use that material in a different format like a television show." Still, the leading star maintained that he, "wouldn’t want to spoil it for anybody, and the truth is, I don’t actually have all of the information as of yet."
For those looking to dive deeper, both The Last of Us Part I and The Last of Us Part II are available to play on PlayStation. The Last of Us Part II also just received an official remaster ahead of season 2, which is out on January 19. "I tried to play the game but I was really shit at [using] the controller," Pascal revealed to Esquire. "It looks like a lot of f**cking fun, but I was so bad at it."
According to HBO chief Casey Bloys, the network isn't eyeing a release for season 2 until 2025. Still, there's a lot to look forward to between now and then. Check out everything we know about The Last of Us season 2 below.
Yes. HBO has officially locked in the actors for season 2's most important players: Abby, Jesse, and Dina. To start us off, Kaitlyn Dever (Dopesick) is officially joining the cast as Abby—AKA, the most influential member of The Last of Us Part II's insane story twists. Though we won't spoil anything here, just know that fans of the video game who are aware of what lies ahead have been eagerly awaiting this announcement. We'll just leave you with a short teaser from HBO that describes Abby as, "a skilled soldier whose black-and-white view of the world is challenged as she seeks vengeance for those she loved."
According to Deadline, Dever emerged as the frontrunner following the end of the SAG-AFTRA strike back in November. "Our casting process for season 2 has been identical to season 1: we look for world-class actors who embody the souls of the characters in the source material," co-creators Craig Mazin and Neil Druckmann said in an official statement. "Nothing matters more than talent, and we’re thrilled to have an acclaimed performer like Kaitlyn join Pedro, Bella and the rest of our family."
But that's not all. The Last of Us has also cast two other major players for season 2. Young Mazino (Beef) was announced as Jesse, while Isabela Merced (Madame Web) will play Dina. Jesse is a selfless member of the duo's new community, according to HBO, while fans of The Last of Us Part II will recognise Dina as Ellie's eventual love interest. Merced also recently starred alongside Dever in the Shakespearean film Rosaline back in 2022. Speaking about casting Mazino, the Last of Us creators stated that he is "one of those rare actors who is immediately undeniable the moment you see him."
Of course, The Last of Us season 2, like season 1, will have a clear roadmap to follow: 2020's divisive The Last of Us Part II. The sequel has even more material to cover than the first season—which compiled all of the events of the first game into its nine episodes. "This should be fairly obvious to anyone by now, but I don’t fear killing characters,” Mazin revealed to Esquire. “But the important thing to note is that neither Neil nor I feel constrained by the source material."
Showrunners Mazin and Druckmann hope that the remainder of the show will have something for anyone watching—from newcomers to devoted fans of the video game series. If you need reassurance that the HBO series will pull off any changes to the game, just look at episode 3's story of Bill and Frank, or even the flashback scenes of Ellie and Ramsey from episode 7. "We will present things, but it will be different," Mazin told Variety. "Sometimes it will be different radically, and sometimes it will be barely different at all. But it's going to be different, and it will be its own thing. It won't be exactly like the game. It will be the show that Neil and I want to make."
Pascal and Ramsey will also be back in Vancouver, according to Deadline, where a majority of the second season will be filmed. Though The Last of Us takes place in the U.S., much of the first season was actually filmed in Calgary, Alberta. For fans of the series, they're already well aware that the duo's time in the Pacific Northwest makes for a majority of the story to come.
Well, even though the series plans to follow the plot of The Last of Us Part 2 "exactly" there's a big question about whether or not the show will end after just two or three seasons. What happens when HBO runs out of material? Will Mazin and Druckmann start dreaming up new plot points to finish the TV series like Game of Thrones? It's a tough choice, especially since creator Druckmann and his video game company, Naughty Dog, are also busy with the next installment in the The Last of Us video game franchise.
"Our plan is to do it not just for one more season. We should be around for a while," Mazin told a panel in Las Vegas, according to Deadline. Earlier, he also told IndieWire that, "Even though we were greenlit for a season of television, Neil and I felt like we can’t just make a season of television without considering what would come after. There is more The Last of Us to come. And I think the balance is not always just about within an episode or even episode to episode but season a season." That includes, potentially, original stories in other cities told beyond the material from the game. We could be looking at a whole world of Last of Us stories, and not just material adapted from two video games.
That's all we'll say about that! We don't want to accidentally reveal the shocking events that occur in The Last of Us Part II. In the coming months, Esquire will break down even more about how the HBO series will adapt the franchise's brutal second entry. For now? Just enjoy the good news: clickers will be sniffing you out well into 2025.
Originally published on Esquire US
There are obviously a ton of highly anticipated TV shows and sequels in the pipeline this year. There's Masters of the Air coming to Apple TV+ this month, a Mr. and Mrs. Smith reboot (Amazon Prime) and Abbott Elementary Season 3 (Disney+) across early February, and 3 Body Problem (Netflix) on 21 March. That's just the first three months of the year, guys.
Our hearts are personally on Severance and Silo, even though the mind knows better than to expect seeing their new seasons this year. In the meantime, there are a handful of already confirmed installations, with HBO Max taking the most of the picking. The trailers aren't just teasers. These shows are certainly dropping this year, the only uncertain thing is the exact date, which are to be announced in due time. Get excited.
The redeeming spinoff from the messy conclusion that was Game of Thrones returns. With allegedly more dragons this time (“You’re going to meet five new dragons,” says showrunner Ryan Condal), the second season will likely pick off from the impending civil war and perhaps even trouble in uncle-husband-niece-wife paradise.
C'mon, that's how a trailer should be done. Give a little premise, but not spell out the entire plot in two and a half minutes. Name drop A24 under Executive Producers alongside the Downeys, and casually mention direction by Oldboy's Park Chan-wook. Plus, RDJ doing the most? Sold.
With the surprise cameos in Gen V season 1, it's reasonable to expect crossovers between the two narratives. Besides the familiar antiheroes reaching for their capes again, new faces joining the cast are Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Rosemarie DeWitt, Rob Benedict and Elliot Knight; characters yet to be revealed.
We didn't need the accolades to convince us what a gem the hit FX series is, but in case you needed reminding; it bagged a total of six awards at the 2023 Emmys. Best comedy series, lead actor in a comedy series (Jeremy Allen White), supporting actor in a comedy series (Ebon Moss-Bachrach) and supporting actress in a comedy series (Ayo Edebiri). So yeah, can't wait to see Carmy get out of that fridge.
Whatever your verdict on Matt Reeves' The Batman was, no one can deny Colin Farrell's performance as the titular villain. Oh wait, did you just find out that was the actor under all those unrecognisable layers of prosthetics? We don't blame you. To his credit, the voice and mannerisms also played a part. Which is why we can only anticipate how the eight-parter on the Gotham gangster will play out.
Awards season kept rolling on Monday night, when the 2023 Emmy Awards graced Los Angeles's Peacock Theater. As usual, the star-studded event honored the best television series of the year and the actors who brought each project to life. The night began with a monologue from Anthony Anderson, who—unlike, you know, Jo Koy—made the audience laugh. I didn’t expect anything less from the black-ish star, though. He’s been nominated 11 (!) times for his comedic skills. Anderson closed his monologue with a plea, asking winners to keep their acceptance speeches short. Then his mother cut in from the audience, yelling, “Time’s up, baby, cut to the chase!”
In case you missed it, here’s how the rest of the night went down. Succession, The Bear, and Beef swept the ceremony. Meanwhile, Ayo Edebiri continued her reign on the awards-season circuit, taking home the trophy for Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series. She delivered yet another charming speech, too. Elton John finally clinched the EGOT after winning an Emmy for his concert film, Farewell from Dodger Stadium. Oh, and Brian Cox kissed Kieran Culkin.
Elsewhere in the ceremony, Quinta Brunson was the first Black woman in over 30 years to win Best Actress in a Comedy. Better Call Saul lost… again. Christina Applegate—who is battling multiple sclerosis—earned a standing ovation from the crowd. The cast of Martin (Tisha Campbell, Carl Anthony Payne II, Martin Lawrence, and Tichina Arnold) reunited on stage to celebrate the sitcom's legacy. Plus, Pedro Pascal joked about his feud with Kieran Culkin, RuPaul stood up for drag queens, and a green goblin appeared on the red carpet.
Naturally, viewers at home tracked the entire ceremony on X (formerly known as Twitter).