Tag Archives: Culture

10 Pride Month Reads That Capture the Defiant and Joyful Spirit of Queer Life

Our picks highlight the power of LGBTQ storytelling to challenge, heal and inspire. Courtesy the publishers

The political landscape may look bleak for LGBTQ people right now, but if history is any indicator, their opponents have a real fight on their hands. This community has long been shaped by resilience, defiance and hope, and Pride Month is an opportunity to look back at and draw strength from past activism before continuing the push for acceptance and equality.

The following ten books showcase hopeful and inspiring voices from across the LGBTQ spectrum. One explores how gay men sought certainty amid the devastation of the AIDS crisis. Another explores how queer sexuality was coded through subtext and suggestion in classic Hollywood cinema. Still others unpack the ups and downs of the modern trans experience, spin beautiful queer coming-of-age stories and remind us that love is love.

Across these must-read books for Pride Month, the LGBTQ community’s storied past meets newly imagined lives to showcase the joy and hope we so desperately need to make it through our turbulent times.

Marsha by Tourmaline

Marsha by Tourmaline. Courtesy Tiny Reparations Books

The Stonewall Riots, a series of NYC clashes in 1969 between police and LGBTQ folk, were the fiery spark that helped jumpstart the 1970s gay liberation movement. While gay men were often centered in retellings of this pivotal event, trans women played a critical role in the uprising, especially Marsha P. Johnson (1945-92). The queer icon is now the subject of an inspiring new biography, Marsha, which underlines her pioneering activism and difficult existence living as a trans woman in 1960s America. Johnson turned that marginalization into action, both at the frontlines of protests and by helping found “STAR: Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries,” a group dedicated to advocating for young trans folk. Beyond bold crusading, Johnson remained a memorable Black figure of fashion and femininity, a trans icon now receiving a biography deserving of her remarkable life.

Sick and Dirty by Michael Koresky

Sick and Dirty by Michael Koresky. Courtesy Bloomsbury

From 1934 to 1968, movies had to follow the strict rules set by the feared Motion Picture Production Code. Films could only “imply or metaphorically evoke the existence” of gay and lesbian identity on screen, which meant depictions of homosexuality were often absent or obscured. In Sick and Dirty, Museum of the Moving Image editorial director Michael Koresky retraces classic movies that attempted to circumvent the censors through hidden metaphor and two-tiered messaging. The likes of Golden Age classics The Children’s Hour and Rope are closely scrutinized by the film scholar to provide an incisive history lesson on how homosexuality may have been missing but never entirely hidden from view. Given that this type of film criticism usually sits within academia, it’s a welcome study for mainstream readers.

Stag Dance by Torrey Peters

Stag Dance by Torrey Peters. Courtesy Random House

In 2021, torrey peters exploded on the literary scene with her bestselling novel Detransition, Baby. It was a riveting work that challenged assumptions about trans women and motherhood. The author now returns with Stag Dance, a novella paired with short stories that wryly wrestles with concerns around gender play, sissiness and a life without sex hormones. One short story sees a school student form an intense attraction to his effeminate roommate, a closeness which elicits questions about his own sexuality and attraction to femme bodies. In another, a trans woman gathering in Las Vegas leads a character to question who counts as trans when a guest arrives in a female silicone body suit. Peters is unapologetic about representing queer rejects—losers, sissies, outcasts, jerks—to complicate issues of identity politics and gender performance, etching perversely entertaining takes on the trans experience today.

The Very Heart of It by Thomas Mallon

The Very Heart of It by Thomas Mallon. Courtesy Knopf

“We’ve all been exposed, we’re all living under the sword.” Among many forlorn entries, this sentence is one that perhaps best encapsulates The Very Heart of It, Thomas Mallon’s moving epistolary memoir chronicling a coming-of-age during the AIDS crisis. As Mallon climbs the ranks of the academic world and makes inroads as a novelist (even achieving a John Updike endorsement), he suffers privately through the grief and pain that sweeps the city’s queer community (including losing a lover to the destructive disease). The journals, with both candor and levity, reveal a city at once inhibited by Reagan-era conservatism and emboldened by passionate social justice. Mallon’s diaries are a powerful and palpable historical record, sure to remind many of the injustices faced by so many LGBTQ folk only a few decades ago.

A Sharp Endless Need by Marisa Crane

A Sharp Endless Need by Marisa Crane. Courtesy The Dial Press

In A Sharp Endless Need, basketball becomes the court—figuratively and literally—two queer teens use to negotiate their charged adolescent attraction. Mack, a senior in high school, is a basketball talent but stymied when transfer student Liv joins the school team. There’s an instant spark between Mack and Liv, one which begins as a close but sometimes evasive friendship between teenagers: both discovering their sexuality in private while sharing an intensely public bond. Author Marisa Crane mines themes of self-destruction, grief and desire that often shape adolescence against the competitive game of basketball. It’s an affecting coming-of-age story that underscores the many intense emotions that fuel young, unadulterated love—perhaps even more so when it’s queer.

Separate Rooms by Pier Vittorio Tondelli

Separate Rooms by Pier Vittorio Tondelli. Courtesy Zando

Newly back in print this year, Separate Rooms is a 1989 cult classic meditating on grief, longing and forgetting. The novel follows Leo, a writer whose male lover has recently passed, as he begins a journey across Europe to heal in the aftermath. The bond of the two men was electrifying and even sometimes too intense, with the book’s title a nod to the plan to previously travel in “separate rooms.” New love and possibility seem elusive to Leo as he makes his way through Germany and Italy, forced to confront his own devastating solitude. Separate Rooms, in chronicling Leo’s search for certainty at a time of devastating directionlessness, proves one moving story on mourning love as a queer person. The novel’s author, Pier Vittorio Tondelli, sadly died of AIDS in 1991, a year before the book received its English translation.

Love in Exile by Shon Faye

Love in Exile by Shon Faye. Courtesy FSG Originals

Love in Exile sees Shon Faye recounting recovering from “lovesickness, [which] devoured me from the inside out” as a 30-something trans woman searching for lasting companionship. The author of The Transgender Issue here unpacks the jaded and melancholic emotions that have haunted her since her young adult life as someone grappling with their gender dysphoria. Across chapters examining issues like addiction, motherhood and casual sex, Faye brings vulnerability and honesty to a larger narrative on the search for love, from within ourselves and from a life partner. There’s no neat ending here as readers learn Faye has suffered another devastating heartbreak while writing the book. But its teachings of seeking kindness and celebrating autonomy is a bittersweet lesson: many know the search for love as a queer person is a battleground that can wound more often than it can save.

The Emperor of Gladness by Ocean Vuong

The Emperor of Gladness by Ocean Vuong. Courtesy Penguin Press

Queer poet Ocean Vuong’s latest novel, The Emperor of Gladness, may open with a disarming moment of self-destruction. But it soon becomes an elegiac work on the redemptive power of human connection, especially in the face of long-buried trauma. It follows Hai, a troubled 19-year-old teenager, fresh out of rehab for an opioid problem, who forms a bond with an elderly Lithuanian woman suffering dementia. After she invites Hai to stay with her, he becomes her live-in carer; the experience of bathing and feeding her calms the chaos and feelings of hopelessness besieging him inside. With majesty and melancholy, Vuong creates a world where two souls form a rare kinship that helps both hold on longer to this world thanks to the other’s quiet but powerful presence. Kindness and compassion unite these people from America’s sidelines to help each other survive their inescapable loneliness.

Disappoint Me by Nicola Dinan

Disappoint Me by Nicola Dinan. Courtesy Penguin Press

Being both a poet and a legal consultant means that Disappoint Me’s protagonist Max has an exacting way with words. The novel follows the trans woman as she returns to London from Hong Kong to find work and romantic fulfillment. Max soon meets Vincent, a cisgender lawyer who makes her smitten until the messiness of modern dating and his carelessness with language undoes their courtship. Max wants to experience “good old-fashioned heteronormativity” in her quest for romance, but language proves part of the fallout attempting to maintain the ruse. Words can inspire and demoralize all at once, proving devastating when weaponized around queer identity. Disappoint Me avoids clear-cut depictions of love to show millennial messiness and existential angst together in a riveting tale of finding lasting companionship. Despite the title, it’s unlikely to disappoint.

Deep House by Jeremy Atherton Lin

Deep House by Jeremy Atherton Lin. Courtesy Little, Brown and Company

Jeremy Atherton Lin, the writer of the celebrated cultural history Gay Bar, returns with a stirring love story set against the Defense of Marriage Act, 1990s laws which set marriage as between one man and one woman. It was a dancefloor rendezvous in London that spilled over the Atlantic, with Lin returning to the U.S. while his lover remained in the U.K. Deep House sees the pair attempt to solidify their relationship while America negates their union socially, economically and legally. The book pairs backstories of pioneering queer people who pursued marriage equality (like an American couple who filed the first legal case in 1979 to seek a same-sex marriage) alongside charged vignettes of passion found in sexual embrace. Given Lin’s partner was sometimes undocumented in the U.S. during their years together, Deep House comes at a particularly apt time under the Trump administration’s ruthless anti-immigration agenda.



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What’s at Stake in the NEA’s Quiet Retreat From the Arts

From economic impact to mental health benefits, public funding for the arts is a vital investment, not a partisan luxury. Unsplash+

On May 2, the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) abruptly terminated hundreds of grants to arts organizations across the country. Notifications were sent from a non-reply email address, citing a shift in grantmaking priorities “to focus funding on projects that reflect the nation’s rich artistic heritage and creativity as prioritized by the president.” This sudden policy reversal, following renewed efforts from the Trump administration to eliminate the agency entirely, blindsided recipients, from nationally recognized institutions to small local programs. The result? Deep uncertainty and financial peril for organizations that serve as economic and cultural anchors in their communities.

This is not a matter of partisan preference—it’s a matter of national consequence. By federal allocation standards, the NEA’s budget is minuscule, accounting for just 0.003 percent of federal spending in 2022. Yet its return on investment is extraordinary. The nonprofit arts and culture sector generated $151.7 billion in economic activity in 2022, supporting 2.6 million jobs and delivering $29.1 billion in government revenue, according to an Arts & Economic Prosperity 6 study. The Bureau of Economic Analysis reported that America’s arts and culture sector contributed $1.2 trillion to GDP in 2023—more than agriculture, transportation or utilities. And the NEA doesn’t fund irresponsibly. It employs an extensive, peer-reviewed selection process, and every dollar awarded must be matched by another from private, local or state sources, ensuring that, rather than replacing community investment, federal funding encourages it and multiplies its impact.

More than 60 percent of NEA grants go to small and mid-sized organizations with annual budgets under $2 million—those most deeply embedded in communities and least likely to have large endowments or ticket revenues to fall back on. These are the dance companies offering workshops in city parks, the after-school theater programs and the local music ensembles introducing new generations to classical instruments. One-third of NEA-funded programming reaches high-poverty neighborhoods and underserved populations, including people with disabilities, veterans and the incarcerated.

In New York City, where the arts are inextricable from the city’s identity and economy, these organizations do more than create culture—they support livelihoods. While Broadway may grab headlines, it is the citywide network of nonprofit venues, rehearsal studios and community stages that sustains the creative workforce and feeds future stars. Eliminate support for the small institutions, and the entire ecosystem falters.

But the NEA’s impact extends well beyond big cities; it funds projects in all 435 congressional districts. Around 4,000 communities benefit each year, and more than 41 million Americans attend a live event supported by NEA funding annually. In rural towns, these programs are often the only reliable access to the arts and a key source of civic pride.

These cuts won’t just harm our economy, they will be detrimental to our collective well-being. As an outlet for expression, empathy and community-building, the performing arts offer a vital antidote to digital overload. This is, perhaps, especially vital amidst the growing mental health crisis we are seeing in young people, but the mental and physical benefits of engaging with the arts across all age groups are well-studied and quantifiable. A study published in Art Therapy found that 45 minutes of creative activity can reduce cortisol levels—the body’s primary stress hormone—by up to 25 percent. A 2019 study conducted by researchers from University College London found that adults who engaged in the arts, even occasionally, had a 14 percent lower risk of dying than those who did not. 

There is also a strategic imperative. Every smart industry invests in R&D. The arts are no different. The NEA supports experimentation and innovation at the earliest stages, when new ideas are most fragile. This is where our cultural future begins—not with commercial guarantees, but with bold visions in need of space to grow. Undermining public support means stifling creative innovation and weakening our global cultural influence.

Calls to eliminate the NEA are not only economically short-sighted—they’re out of step with what Americans want. A major national public opinion survey conducted by Americans for the Arts in 2023 found that nearly 80 percent of Americans believe arts and culture are important to their community’s business and economy, and 86 percent support arts education in schools. The arts make our neighborhoods livable, our cities vibrant and our children more prepared to thrive in a complex world.

As we approach the Tony Awards and celebrate excellence on Broadway, we must also consider the scaffolding that supports it. The future of American theater—and of our cultural legacy—depends on the choices we make now. Reviving NEA funding isn’t a partisan agenda—it’s a common-sense investment in jobs, health, education and the kind of civic unity this country so urgently needs.



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Gray Skies and Grand Jetés: ABT’s Spring Gala Celebrated 85 Years in Style

Eric Rutherford and Kelly Killoren Bensimon. Getty Images for American Ballet

Last week, a downpour couldn’t dampen the glow inside Cipriani South Street, where the American Ballet Theatre staged its annual Spring Gala with all the elegance you’d expect from one of New York’s premier cultural institutions. The black-tie affair not only celebrated the company’s 85th anniversary but also honored longtime supporters Susan and Leonard Feinstein, whose decades of generosity have funded the creation of new choreography and helped ensure the company’s artistic longevity. Susan Jaffe, ABT’s artistic director, and Barry Hughson, its executive director, raised a toast to open the evening before guests made their way from cocktails to a candlelit dinner—and the real draw of the night: the dancing.

The program offered a glittering preview of ABT’s 2025 Summer season, from an excerpt of Christopher Wheeldon’s The Winter’s Tale—receiving its New York premiere next year—to tried-and-true favorites like Kevin McKenzie’s Swan Lake, George Balanchine’s Theme and Variations and Frederick Ashton’s Sylvia. Contemporary brilliance wasn’t forgotten either: Twyla Tharp’s Bach Partita and Alexei Ratmansky’s Serenade after Plato’s Symposium rounded out a program that was both reverent and electric. The evenings star dancers included Joo Won Ahn, Aran Bell, Isabella Boylston, Skylar Brandt, Daniel Camargo, Herman Cornejo, Catherine Hurlin, Chloe Misseldine, Gillian Murphy, SunMi Park, Jake Roxander, Calvin Royal III, Hee Seo, Christine Shevchenko, Cory Stearns, Devon Teuscher, Cassandra Trenary and James Whiteside.

Gillian Murphy. Getty Images for American Ballet

New York’s boldfaced names turned out in force in a mix that was pure Manhattan: Alec and Hilaria Baldwin, designer Cynthia Rowley, patron Indré Rockefeller, philanthropic fixture Jean Shafiroff, former White House press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre, jewelry designer Lauren Levinson, philanthropist Lizzie Asher, designer Michelle Ochs, TooD Beauty founder Sharareh Siadat and soccer star Ashlyn Harris. There were dancers offstage, too, including icons Misty Copeland, Sascha Radetsky and Stella Abrera, as well as actors Sophia Bush, Dascha Polanco, Alex Newell and Eric Rutherford. Even a few Real Housewives showed up to support the stage, with Sai De Silva, Kelly Killoren Bensimon and Sutton Stracke trading reality TV confessionals for champagne.

Susan Jaffe, Susan Feinstein and Barry Hughson

Susan Jaffe, Susan Feinstein and Barry Hughson. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Hilaria Baldwin and Alec Baldwin

Hilaria Baldwin and Alec Baldwin. Getty Images for American Ballet

Misty Copeland and Clinton Luckett

Misty Copeland and Clinton Luckett. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Karine Jean-Pierre

Karine Jean-Pierre. Getty Images for American Ballet

Katherine Gage Boulud

Katherine Gage Boulud. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Sai De Silva, Michelle Ochs and Sharfaraz Khan

Sai De Silva, Michelle Ochs and Sharfaraz Khan. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Rebecca Hessel Cohen

Rebecca Hessel Cohen. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Christine Shevchenko

Christine Shevchenko. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Monica Elias, Cynthia Rowley, Lauren Kulchinsky Levison, Lizzie Asher and Tina Leung

Monica Elias, Cynthia Rowley, Lauren Kulchinsky Levison, Lizzie Asher and Tina Leung. Getty Images for American Ballet

Leonard Feinstein

Leonard Feinstein. Getty Images for American Ballet

Isiah Magsino

Isiah Magsino. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Cathy Ingram and Bill Ingram

Cathy Ingram and Bill Ingram. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Lauren Levison

Lauren Levison. Getty Images for American Ballet

Ashlynn Harris and Sophia Bush

Ashlynn Harris and Sophia Bush. Getty Images for American Ballet

Jean Shafiroff

Jean Shafiroff. Getty Images for American Ballet

James Whiteside and Tina Leung

James Whiteside and Tina Leung. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Alex Newell

Alex Newell. Getty Images for American Ballet

Nicole DiCocco

Nicole DiCocco. Getty Images for American Ballet

Lizzie Asher and Natalie Dougherty

Lizzie Asher and Natalie Dougherty. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Priya Shukla

Priya Shukla. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Kimberly Taylor Gindi and Roman Chiporukha

Kimberly Taylor Gindi and Roman Chiporukha. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Patti Ruiz-Healy

Patti Ruiz-Healy. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Sharareh Siadat, John Wattiker and Malcolm Carfrae

Sharareh Siadat, John Wattiker and Malcolm Carfrae. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Indré Rockefeller

Indré Rockefeller. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Mitzi Eisenberg and Warren Eisenberg

Mitzi Eisenberg and Warren Eisenberg. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Eric Rutherford and James Richard Miller

Eric Rutherford and James Richard Miller. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Monica Elias, Lizzie Asher, Tina Leung, Bach Mai and Lauren Levison

Monica Elias, Lizzie Asher, Tina Leung, Bach Mai and Lauren Levison. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Arielle Patrick and Valentino Carlotti

Arielle Patrick and Valentino Carlotti. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Kelly Killoren Bensimon

Kelly Killoren Bensimon. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Gillian Murphy and Kevin Mckenzie

Gillian Murphy and Kevin Mckenzie. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Gillian Murphy and James Whiteside

Gillian Murphy and James Whiteside. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com

Chloe Misseldine and PJ Pascual

Chloe Misseldine and PJ Pascual. Yvonne Tnt/BFA.com



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Wes Anderson Explains the Genesis of ‘The Phoenician Scheme’

Mathieu Amalric, Wes Anderson, Mia Threapleton and Benicio Del Toro on the set of The Phoenician Scheme. Roger Do Minh/Courtesy of TPS Productions/Focus Features

The Cannes Film Festival has a way of inspiring its attendees. Just take it from acclaimed auteur Wes Anderson, returning to the Riviera for his fourth time with The Phoenician Scheme. “When we were here four years ago with The French Dispatch,” said Anderson during last week’s press conference, “I said to Benicio, ‘Something’s going to be coming your way. I hope you’ll be interested in this.’”

At the time, Anderson only had an image of the film’s lead, Benicio Del Toro, dressed as shady industrialist Anatole “Zsa-Zsa” Korda. “I didn’t know what was going to happen,” continued Anderson. “I just knew this character, and he was moving relentlessly through the story. And you can’t kill him.” 

Del Toro, who had only ever worked with Anderson on the episodic multi-character ensemble French Dispatch, sparked to the idea, especially since Anderson wanted to collaborate with him at such an early stage while developing the script with longtime writing partner Roman Coppola. “I get to channel the kid in me to really explode,” del Toro explained. “And that’s unique as an actor.” 

Benicio Del Toro as Zsa-Zsa Korda, Michael Cera as Bjorn and Mia Threapleton as Liesl in The Phoenician Scheme. Courtesy of TPS Productions/Focus Features

“Benicio was part of forming it with me,” said Anderson. “This character has a ruthlessness and a brutality. But the layers are in Benicio, and that informed the story when Roman and I were writing it.” 

Unlike his previous film, the meta-textual quasi-sci-fi Asteroid City—heavily self-reflexive, slower-paced and tinged with ennui—The Phoenician Scheme plays like a propulsive thriller, opening with the comically determined Korda surviving another plane crash (his sixth), yet again having evaded the assassins constantly trying to kill him. “I’m in the habit of surviving,” says the tenacious tycoon, famously known as Mister 5% for taking a lucrative cut of every business deal he touches.

But the near-death experience makes him reconsider his life just enough to summon his estranged daughter-turned-nun Liesl (Mia Threapleton) from her convent for an important family meeting at Palazzo Korda. His plan: make Liesl the sole heir to his estate, and immediately assign her to be manager of his business affairs—specifically the Korda Land and Sea Phoenician Infrastructure Scheme. And so Korda insists on taking her through each of his projected ventures and uncommitted business partners across Phoenicia, involving railway magnates, shipping vessels, dams, tunnels, and more than a few exploited laborers pilfering natural resources.

“We were writing something that we intended to be very dark,” said Anderson, “a character who’s not concerned about how his decisions are affecting populations of workforces and landscapes. The darkness of a certain type of capitalist. But it took us somewhere else.”

Wes Anderson on the set of The Phoenician Scheme. Roger Do Minh/TPS Productions/Focus Features

That new direction was all due to the good-hearted Liesl, who turned this tale into a Wes Anderson staple: the family drama. “I have a daughter, Roman has a daughter, Benicio has a daughter,” said Anderson. “If we didn’t, then Zsa Zsa probably wouldn’t have.” In Anderson’s telling, the real gambit in the Phoenician Scheme is Korda’s reconciliation with the resistant Liesl. “This whole business venture, without him knowing it, is just a way for him to get back his daughter,” Anderson explained. “He’s created this vast ritual that they go through; and by the end, it’s less and less the thing he wants.” 

Korda harkens back to classic Anderson antiheroes like Royal Tenenbaum in sharing a megalomaniacal outlook on life, an amoral pursuit of winning at any cost, and a slippery identity protected by money. “I don’t live anywhere,” Korda says to Liesl at one point. “I’m not a citizen at all. I don’t need human rights.”

The larger-than-life rogue, charmingly dangerous and willfully dismissive of life’s rules, was inspired by Anderson’s late father-in-law, a businessman and engineer named Fouad Malouf (to whom the film is dedicated). “He was a very warm, wise person. He was very alpha. Maybe a little scary at first. Strong. The first conversation I ever had with him, I asked him what the men who worked with him were like. And he told me, ‘All lions. I only work with lions.’ He was a lion.”

Anderson surrounds del Toro not only with Liesl, but also with her tutor, Norwegian entomologist Bjørn Lund (Michael Cera). For both Threapleton and Cera, The Phoenician Scheme is their first time working with Anderson. “I’ve been a huge fan forever,” Cera told Observer during a conversation after the press conference. “I saw The Royal Tenenbaums in the theater when I was, like 11, and loved it. The Life Aquatic, Bottle Rocket. I watched Rushmore 8000 times. It was just one of the most important movies to me, and one that helped me find my tastes.” 

Threapleton also confessed to being a diehard Anderson fan—not to mention a longtime aspirational member of his ensemble. “I was going through some old journals recently,” said Threapleton at the Cannes press conference. “And I stumbled across an entry from 2013 that said, ‘Watching Moonrise Kingdom again. Bloody love this film. Really wish I can work with Wes Anderson one day.’” 

Cera admitted that he was so fascinated with watching Anderson direct that he spent much of his time on set whenever possible—so much so that Anderson joked Cera was pulling a Willem Dafoe. “I kept finding ways to get into shots that had not been planned with me,” Cera explained. “Wes said that that was the Willem Dafoe trick from The Life Aquatic. Dafoe would just say, ‘Do you think my character Franz should just be up on that ridge over there?’”

Cera and Threapleton are in almost every shot with del Toro, and the film really focuses on the trio’s misadventures together around Phoenicia. “We were very fortunate to have a chance to rehearse with Wes, the three of us,” said Cera. “And Wes said that he never does that. I remember him saying that that was his first time ever doing rehearsals.”

All three of the actors’ performances seem atypical for a Wes Anderson film, and their rehearsals together might have given them a chance to develop a deeper emotional bond than usual. Although castmate benedict cumberbatch felt like the genial, goofy Cera was born to be in a Wes Anderson film. “Watching Wes use Michael is like God discovering water: it seems like a pretty obvious, natural element to have in his arsenal as a filmmaker,” said Cumberbatch at the press conference. “It’s the perfect partnership.”

A journalist then asked if Anderson had any plans to use Cera again. “Me?” Anderson replied with surprise. “I say yes. But I’m just asking.”

Cera smiled at the answer. “I’ll agree with Wes. With a hopeful yes.”

“Let’s shake on it,” replied Anderson. “Sometimes people say yes, but they don’t really mean it later. Let’s get this on the record.” And the two exchanged a firm handshake while the journalists clapped.

 



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‘Three! Seven! Ace!’: The Met Goes All in On ‘Queen of Spades’

Arsen Soghomonyan and Sonya Yoncheva as Hermann and Lisa. Ken Howard/MetOpera

When details of star soprano Anna Netrebko’s lawsuit against the Metropolitan Opera surfaced, one of the projects planned for her was a revival of Tchaikovsky’s searing tragedy Queen of Spades. After she became soprano non grata at the Met in response to the Ukraine war and her support of Russian President Vladimir Putin, several Netrebko plans were dropped, while others, like new productions of Lohengrin and La Forza del Destino, proceeded with other sopranos.

But the company decided to proceed with Queen of Spades starring sonya yoncheva, another marquee name, as Lisa, while Netrebko’s first stab at the opera has been rescheduled for late June at the Vienna Staatsoper alongside her now ex-husband Yusif Eyvasov. After his Met success as Hermann in 2019, Eyvasov would surely have repeated it in 2025, so the Met had to also find a new Hermann: a task that proved to be inordinately complicated.

The opera’s plot, based on a novella by Pushkin, revolves around soldier Hermann’s reckless quest to uncover the magical three cards that will guarantee his gambling success. The Met’s plans to put its Queen of Spades back on stage ultimately involved three tenors. When this spring’s revival was announced in February 2024, American Brian Jagde was Hermann, a new role for him. When I asked him about it last year, he offered that “Hermann is a role I feel I can really sink my teeth into and… it presents challenges I feel I’m now ready for in my development as an artist.”

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However, less than a month before the premiere, Jagde withdrew, later revealing that he hadn’t had sufficient time to prepare for the role. The opera company then summoned Brandon Jovanovich, who had starred in a new production of Queen of Spades just last season at Munich’s Bavarian State Opera, to take over. Then, the day before the dress rehearsal, the Met announced that Jovanovich would be replaced by Armenian tenor Arsen Soghomonyan.

A veteran Hermann, Soghomonyan amply demonstrated in his hastily arranged Met debut that he has the powerful tenor needed. But perhaps nerves or a lack of rehearsal caused him to crack at several crucial points. No doubt embarrassed by those mishaps, the tenor appeared for his solo bow, brandishing the pistol he used to “kill himself” minutes earlier. Acknowledging the enthusiastic applause, he pointed it to his temple with a shrug of apology.

Alexey Markov as Tomsky. Ken Howard/MetOpera

In another turn of the opera world merry-go-round, Soghomonyan had to leave Turandot at the Greek National Opera to take on his surprise Met duties. He was replaced in Athens as Calaf by Jagde whose website still lists Hermann on his schedule at Berlin’s Deutsche Oper for late June.

A blunt actor, Soghomonyan embodied Hermann’s distracted obsession effectively and otherwise delivered his increasingly desperate music with burning intensity. Aside from the unfortunate cracks, he fervently hurled potent high notes into the packed house.

He and Yoncheva manifested a chilly chemistry, emphasizing that Hermann is involved with Lisa primarily to gain access to the Countess, her grandmother, to learn the old woman’s secret of the three cards. Absent from the Met since her very problematic turn in 2023 as Bellini’s Norma, the Bulgarian soprano gave us a fiercely emotional Lisa—one as possessed by her self-destructive passions as Hermann was by his gambling addiction. Her instrument has grown significantly, and she flooded the Met with rich tone in her pair of tortured arias. Her top notes can shade sharp and worn, but they were in firmer shape than they had been in Norma. Clearly, Tchaikovsky brings out the best in Yoncheva, as she had shown in Iolanta at the Met in 2019. She sounded considerably better at the premiere than she does in the dress rehearsal video the Met posted.

One of the highlights of Elijah Moshinsky’s vivid production when it premiered in 1995 was Leonie Rysanek’s gripping portrayal of the old Countess, her final role with a company that adored her. Her renowned flamboyance embraced Moshinsky’s most breathtaking moment: after Hermann has invaded the Countess’s bedroom and scared her to death, her ghost appears to reveal to him the secret of the cards: Three! Seven! Ace! Moshinsky has the Countess, now clad in infernal red, noisily break through the floor of the soldier’s quarters. Rysanek was genuinely frightening, but this season’s Violeta Urmana failed to make much of her striking entrance. In her earlier appearances, Urmana looked smashing in Mark Thompson’s sumptuous gowns but appeared too proudly erect for the frail noblewoman so easily frightened to death by the home invader. However, Urmana brought a haunting vulnerability to her nostalgic Grétry aria that she and conductor Keri-Lynn Wilson took very slowly.

Violeta Urmana as the Countess. Ken Howard/MetOpera

The 1995 premiere also featured the Met debut of Dmitri Hvorostovsky in his signature role of Prince Yeletsky. The character has little to do beyond sing a ravishing aria proclaiming his love for Lisa. Igor Golovatenko, who made his Met debut as Yeletsky in 2019, repeated the role with less success this time. Though he was in better voice than he had been in the fall as a muted di Luna in Il Trovatore, his aria this time was performed without much tenderness or legato. One wished that he had traded places with Alexey Markov, the Met’s Tomsky of choice since 2011, who was in securely ringing voice this season and would have made a more fluent Yeletsky.

Maria Baranova found Pauline’s plaintive aria much more congenial than she had the rabble-rousing of Preziosilla in La Forza del Destino last season. She doubled as a dashing Daphnis in the enchanting second-act Mozartian pastorale in which she vied with Markov’s hearty Plutus for the affections of Ann-Kathrin Niemczk’s lovely Chloë. Chad Shelton stood out as Tchekalinsky, sounding as if he might have easily taken over as the Met’s fourth Hermann!

Conductor Wilson made an impressive debut in 2022, leading Shostakovich’s scorchingly satiric Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. She ably negotiated the score’s extremes of Tchaikovsky’s score from Hermann’s fiery outbursts to the beguiling enchantments of the pastorale. Very late in a long season, the company’s orchestra and chorus remained for Wilson on top of their game. If her Queen of Spades hadn’t completely jelled at its fraught premiere, it will surely improve by the fifth performance, which will be the Met’s final Saturday matinee broadcast on 7 June.



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The 2026 Venice Biennale Will Honor Koyo Kouoh’s Vision With “In Minor Keys”

The central pavilion, which last year hosted “Kapewe Pukeni” by MAHKU (Movimento dos Artistas Huni Kuin). Photo by AVZ. Courtesy of La Biennale di Venezia.

The 61st edition of the Venice Biennale will proceed as planned, despite the sudden passing of curator Koyo Kouoh. More importantly, it will still be guided by Kouoh’s vision, Cristiana Costanzo, the Biennale’s lead press officer, announced today (May 27) at a press conference at the historic Sala delle Colonne in Ca’ Giustinian. Titled “In Minor Keys,” the 2026 Venice Biennale will be realized thanks in part to the efforts of a multicultural team of advisors with whom Kouoh was already working closely: curators Gabe Beckhurst Feijoo, Marie Helena Pereira and Rasha Salti, critic and editor-in-chief Siddhartha Mitter, and assistant Rory Tsapayi.

The Biennale chose to move ahead with Kouoh’s curatorial concept based on a comprehensive proposal she submitted on April 8 that included theoretical texts, artist selections, spatial design, visual identity and catalogue contributions—with the “full support of Koyo Kouoh’s family,” Costanzo said. “We are realizing her exhibition as she designed it, as she imagined it, as she gave it to me personally,” added Pietrangelo Buttafuoco, the Biennale’s president. “La Biennale is doing today what it has been doing for 100 years.”

As the musically inspired title suggests, the artistic framework for the upcoming edition promises to showcase intimate and introspective forms of listening, contemplation, exchange and understanding that can counter the overwhelming and disorienting oversaturation of our turbulent times. In Kouoh’s words, the exhibition will be “a polyphonous assembly of art… convening and communing in convivial collectivity, beaming across the void of alienation and the crackle of conflict.”

According to Rasha Salti, Kouoh envisioned a biennial that “refuses orchestral bombast,” rejecting both the grandiosity of today’s major global art events and society’s performative behaviors. She imagined the Biennale as a call to decelerate—to “take a deep breath. Exhale. Drop your shoulders. And close your eyes.”

SEE ALSO: Guglielmo Castelli Explores Longing and Theatricality in His São Paulo Debut

“I am tired. People are tired. We are all tired. The world is tired. Even art itself is tired,” wrote Kouoh in a 2022 text read by Rory Tsapayi near the end of the press conference. It’s evidence that the curator had long been aware of the need for a shift in how art is produced, circulated and experienced for it to retain impact in today’s world. “Perhaps the time has come. We need something else,” she wrote. “We need to heal. We need to laugh. We need to be with beauty, and lots of it. We need to play, we need to be with poetry. We need to be with love again. We need to dance. We need to rest and restore. We need to breathe. We need the radicality of joy. The time has come.”

Kouoh’s presence was acutely felt at the press conference, which opened with a video of the curator smiling and continued with tributes and readings that echoed her remarkable personality and vision. The tone grew emotional when Buttafuoco recalled Kouoh asking whether she could tell her mother upon learning she had been selected to curate the 2026 Biennale.

In a speech following her appointment last December, Kouoh expressed her desire to shape an exhibition that would “carry meaning for the world we currently live in and, most importantly, for the world we want to make.” For her, artists were visionaries and social scientists—figures capable of helping us reflect on and imagine alternative solutions for a better future.

A Venice Biennale “In Minor Keys”

True to her curatorial approach, she conceived the Biennale as an invitation to listen to minor voices and tonalities, a metaphor for attending to microrealities, alternative forms of knowledge and wisdom, ancestral memories and overlooked geographies, often revealed through personal stories eclipsed by dominant historical narratives to rediscover the essence of being human. With an emphasis on “the sensory, the affective and the subjective,” as Beckhurst Feijoo explained, the upcoming Biennale will spotlight artists whose practices “seamlessly bleed into society,” standing in opposition to the “spectacle of horror” and global chaos. This curatorial proposition turns the exhibition itself into an exercise in listening to the minor keys (“the sotto voce” signals of potential change) and to artists as agents of that change. The minor keys are sonic, social and spatial metaphors for attuning to faint but enduring voices of resistance, to frequencies of care and beauty—an invitation “to find the oases, the islands, where the dignity of all living beings is regarded.”

Today’s conference indicated that the curatorial ethos of the 2026 Venice Biennale will likely align with that of other recent biennials, including the Sharjah Biennial (“to carry”) and the Boston Triennial (“Exchange”), which have increasingly embraced a polyphonous exhibition model as a platform to gather, preserve and amplify alternative forms of knowledge, more intimate modes of sense-making, ancestral memory and decentered micro-geographical and micronarrative realities.

All details of the Biennale—including the list of artists invited to the international exhibition, the graphic identity, the exhibition design and the list of participating countries—will be announced on Wednesday, February 25, 2026. In the meantime, several nations have already announced the artists taking over their national pavilions: Henrike Naumann and Sung Tieu for Germany, curated by Kathleen Reinhardt; Yto Barrada (an artist of Moroccan descent who recently exhibited a sculpture in MoMA PS1’s open-air atrium) for France, and 2017 Turner Prize winner Lubaina Himid for Great Britain. The U.S. has yet to reveal its pick, and concerns have been raised over how the cultural agenda of the Trump administration might shape the decision—particularly what kind of narrative the country might choose to present at one of the world’s largest, most influential and most political international art exhibitions.



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Screening at Cannes: Lynne Ramsay’s ‘Die, My Love’

Jennifer Lawrence in Die My Love Kimberly French/Courtesy of Cannes Film Festival

Although it eventually loses staying power, Lynne Ramsay’s ferocious relationship drama Die, My Love quickly seeps beneath your skin, practically holding you hostage in its initial half. Ramsay’s first feature in eight years—after the Cannes crime drama You Were Never Really Here—casts Jennifer Lawrence and Robert Pattinson in its leading roles, as Grace and Jackson, a pair of newlyweds who inherit a Montana farmhouse. This rural, isolated setting plays host to the couple’s steadily crumbling relationship, which its actors embody by jumping headfirst into raw, instinctive performances.


DIE, MY LOVE ★★1/2 (2.5/4 stars)
Directed by: Lynne Ramsay
Written by: Lynne Ramsay, Enda Walsh, Alice Birch
Starring: Jennifer Lawrence, Robert Pattinson, LaKeith Stanfield, Sissy Spacek, Nick Nolte
Running time: 118 mins.


At times, Ramsay practically films acting exercises with Lawrence and Pattinson, who crawl along the dusty floors, giving into feline animalism. Their sex is feral and playful, drawing the viewer into the lust and euphoria of their honeymoon stage. However, the movie quickly cuts to several months down the line, after they’ve had a child, and they’ve entered a rut that keeps them at loggerheads.

The film has been touted as one of postpartum depression—given the timing of the duo’s simultaneous breakdown—but this feels like a mis-categorization. If anything, the couple’s woes are catalyzed by Grace staying home to care for their, baby while Jackson spends more and more time away, at a blue collar job whose details we barely learn (we remain largely tethered to Grace’s point of view). The film’s brash, diegetic soundtrack, as Grace oscillates between playing early ‘60s rock and roll and ‘80s bubblegum glam at deafening volume, creates a hair-raising baseline, complemented by disembodied images of a forest on fire. Perhaps this is a premonition involving the woods surrounding the couple’s home, but its abstract nature speaks to how Grace and Jackson are being engulfed by some unseen force, born of their own anxieties.

Seamus McGarvey’s cinematography washes out the movie’s color palette, over-exposing it ever so slightly, so that every scene resembles what one might experience during a head-splitting hangover. His lensing also makes deft and dizzying use of swirling bokeh, imbuing the lush backgrounds with a sensation of vertigo and unease. In keeping with this approach, Ramsay gently twirls the camera around the characters too, introducing gradually more erratic movements for the first few scenes. There isn’t a moment of calm during Die, My Love, placing its most effective moments comfortably alongside Andrzej Żuławski’s 1981 discomforting romance Possession, in which Sam Neill and Isabelle Adjani turn a couple’s divorce into a focal point for psychological horror. Lawrence and Pattinson don’t quite stray that far into genre territory, but their full-bodied commitment proves alluring and amusing.

After laying its cards on the table, it isn’t long before Die, My Love plateaus both narratively and aesthetically. Its back-and-forth screenplay structure renders flashbacks confusing on occasion, forcing your brain to work overtime to scenes in chronological order, though figuring out its confounding emotional inner workings can be part of the fun. Still, the movie’s more esoteric machinations in the present don’t quite fit. Lakeith Stanfield, for instance, plays a minor role as a mysterious, helmeted biker who appears to stalk Grace when Jackson is away, piquing Grace’s curiosity as though he were some phantasmic stand-in for the masculinity and exciting romance Jackson no longer represents for her. But Stanfield’s role is so truncated as to lose even this symbolic meaning.

Beyond a point, the characters don’t brush up against the movie’s established emotional confines more than they do the first time we meet them. The evolution (or de-evolution) of Grace and Jackson’s marriage—alongside the parallel tale of Jackson’s mother (Sissy Spacek) dealing with her own terrifying isolation a few miles away—is a plot largely in stasis. Although the movie hints towards zigs and zags that might make things shocking, or make its drama more rigorous, the malaise the movie depicts is fixed, and unchanging.

On one hand, this mirrors the sensation of being stuck in a dead-end marriage with no excitement or unpredictability. But on the other hand, the movie fails to undergo any meaningful visual, auditory or tonal transformations even once Grace and Jackson find themselves moving through new and challenging phases of their relationship.

Die, My Love arrives like a lightning strike, snatching your attention with its sprawling shots of the couple’s new home through lengthy hallways—shot so that its doorways align, practically creating a deep-focus mise-en-abyme. But this recurring motif of frames-within-frames seldom gives way to deeper reflection on what troubles the young couple once they move to their new abode. Lawrence and Pattinson’s performances are wildly fun, and fearlessly embodied, but they’re forced to maintain a consistently timid emotional trajectory—an unwavering straight line, towards only slightly more discomfort—rather than serving a film that goes full-tilt through the wild mania of a home becoming an asylum, and unruly romance succumbing to malaise.

 

 



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Ayodele Casel On Dance, Community and Her New Show ‘The Remix’

Casel’s newest show is a vibrant, history-rooted celebration of tap dance and community. Photo: Patrick Randak

“It’s been a mission of mine to transform the way audiences view and experience tap dance,” critically-acclaimed dancer and choreographer Ayodele Casel told Observer. “Every show I do is an opportunity for that to happen.” We were discussing the world premiere of The Remix, which opens at The Joyce Theater tomorrow (May 28) and runs through June 8. This is her third show at the venue, but this one is different from anything else she’s presented there. “It’s very chill,” she said. “It has the feel of a living room, a lounge, a club. We have the dancers on stage. We have couches on stage. It’s like Nuyorican Poets Cafe meets Smalls Jazz Club meets Joe’s Pub meets The Joyce.”

Part of what Casel wants to transform is the expectation that tap dance should only entertain or only move “fast and funky.” She wants more people to understand that the genre has always been sophisticated, with a depth of expression. “Historically, we have seen that in the beauty of a soft shoe. We have seen that in the showmanship of the Nicholas Brothers and the cool, classy style of Sammy Davis, Jr., and the funky authenticity of Gregory Hines.”

The Remix, which Casel co-created with her wife and creative collaborator, Torya Beard, is rooted in history, but in a more recent period. It remixes highlights from Casel’s two-decade repertoire while paying tribute to the music, movement and cultural spirit of the 1990s. The nineties are significant for Casel for two reasons: it was the time of the major tap renaissance in the U.S., brought on in large part by Savion Glover’s hit musical Bring in ‘da Noise, Bring in ‘da Funk (1995), and the beginning of her career as a tap dancer.

SEE ALSO: The 2026 Venice Biennale Will Honor Koyo Kouoh’s Vision With “In Minor Keys”

Casel, who was born and raised in The Bronx (minus a few formative years spent in Puerto Rico), did not grow up taking formal dance classes, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to be a Janet Jackson dancer. “I was, like, Rhythm Nation-ing myself all over the place,” she said with a laugh. “With my friends, and alone in my living room.” She also grew up watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies, enthusiastically “faking” their footwork in front of her bedroom mirror.

While attending NYU Tisch School of the Arts to study drama, Casel took her first tap class and experienced “the sheer joy of pretending that I was Ginger for a year.” But it was when she met classmate Baakari Wilder (“a real tap dancer”) that Casel saw what tap could do and be. She realized that tap was more than show tunes and movie musicals, that it had vast expressive possibilities. And it was when she first saw Bring in ‘da Noise, Bring in ‘da Funk at The Public Theater in 1995, that she understood that the history of tap came from her ancestors, rooted “in the souls and the feet of Black people,” that this was something she, too, could do.

Casel devoted herself to this percussive art form that was rapidly changing before her eyes. She “showed up to everything and practiced like a maniac.” She begged a construction worker for an extra 4×4 piece of wood and dragged it through Union Square and onto the 5 train so she could practice at home. She danced to the music she was listening to then, “as a young Black and Puerto Rican human woman in the Bronx”—mostly Hip Hop and R&B.

In 1997, Glover spotted her tapping after a show at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in the Lower East Side and was impressed. He invited her to join and tour with his new company, Not Your Ordinary Tappers, along with Jason Samuels Smith and Abron Glover. This is where she received, as she says, the best education on the road.

Casel was feeling nostalgic about that time in her life, when she would tap to The Fugees and Digable Planets because it felt so good on her body and in her feet, when she spent most of her time practicing with and learning from friends. Beard said, “Well, maybe we should make a show about that.” So they did.

The Remix is a 90-minute show choreographed by Casel and directed by Beard, containing reimagined excerpts from Casel’s diverse body of work, including Audrey (2005), Where We Dwell (2021), Funny Girl (2022), Push/Pull (2022), and Diary of a Tap Dancer (2024), along with new works by guest choreographers Naomi Funaki & Caleb Teicher, Quynn L. Johnson, and Ryan K. Johnson. The result is a celebration of Casel’s career, and also something entirely new.

The ensemble consists of nine top-of-their-game tap artists (including Casel), a poet (Tony McPherson), a freestyle artist (SuB a.k.a. Elijah Bullard), and two musicians (Keisel Jiménez on percussion and Raúl Reyes on bass). Liberty Styles will DJ as well as dance, and tap artist Jared Alexander created a new musical score inspired by the music of the 90s, with odes to Queen Latifah, A Tribe Called Quest, and The Fugees woven throughout.

Casel has worked with all of the artists (except SuB, who she described as “the missing link”) for many years, so creating a show that celebrates community, friendship, and collaboration came easily for everyone. “In this time, in 2025, with everything that is going on in the world, everybody can use a jolt of joy,” Casel said. “That is one of the things that I hope people feel when they sit down and join our living room.”

She also hopes audiences feel a deeper understanding and appreciation of the art form she’s dedicated her life to. “Tap is constantly evolving,” she explained. “So when you come to see us, you have to expand beyond what you expected to see and or hear. These are world-class artists. They are constantly investigating. So stay with us. Go with us on this journey. And stay open.” You just might be transformed.

Ayodele Casel’s The Remix runs May 28 through June 8 at The Joyce Theater in New York City.  



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Jennifer Simard On Her ‘Death Becomes Her’ Onstage Partnership—And Tony Competition

Megan Hilty and Jennifer Simard in Death Becomes Her. Matthew Murphy

Jennifer Simard is nominated for a Tony this season, as Best Actress in a Musical. So is her Death Becomes Her co-star, Megan Hilty. Playing frenemies whose fur-flying ferocity lasts more than a lifetime or two, theirs is, almost, a dueling performance. One character couldn’t exist without returning the serve of the other, which they do with such mastery that it’s been suggested that both of them should win the Tony, a scenario that Simard tells Observer would be a “dream come true.” After all, she adds, “we are functioning as partners with this show.”

The click-click-click of their chemistry was there from the beginning, she beams. “The first reading we did together was in April of 2023,” Simard says. “Then we did a workshop for about three weeks in August of 2023, and finally Chicago in the spring of 2024. In each incarnation, like any kind of relationship, it continued to grow and deepen. We wallowed and dealt with each other in kindness and respect. We took care of each another. We know, inherently, how important it is to protect our relationship, on stage and off. The off-stage relationship is palpable on stage.”

Jennifer Simard and Christopher Sieber in Death Becomes Her. Matthew Murphy

That’s perhaps a loaded statement, given the vicious hilarity of that onstage relationship. Hilty plays Madeline Ashton, a brassy, blonde theater star, and Simard plays struggling writer Helen Sharp. They’ve been rivals since childhood, and Madeline—feeling some career-slippage—invites Helen to view what’s left of her showbiz sparkle, stealing Helen’s straight-laced fiancé—plastic surgeon Ernest Menville (Christopher Sieber)—in the process.  When they cross paths again, Helen’s Godzilla side comes out, and bombastic bitchiness rules the show. Oh, and there’s a magic potion that will provide eternal beauty, so when things turn murderous the two come back to life.

A twin Tony win for these two would be, as Simarard says, a dream come true, but it is just a dream—this prize doesn’t split, and the competition—including Audra McDonald in Gypsy and Nicole Scherzinger in Sunset Boulevard—is fierce. Or, as Simard diplomatically puts it, “So many women could have been correctly nominated this year.”

A recurring Tony nominee, Simard is facing the fate of the super-gifted also-ran. Disappointment One: Disaster!, the 2016 jukebox musical in which she was Sister Mary Downey, a nun on a floating casino slap-happy over slot machines; Hamilton’s Renee Elise Goldsberry picked up that prize. Her next nomination, in 2022, was for playing Sarah in the gender-flipped Company. “I call that my pandemic show,” she says, “We did about 12 shows before everything shut down, but we came back and reopened. I was a cover for Patti LuPone, so, when she got COVID—as we all did in March of ’22—I did about ten days for her. She was my Tony competition, and, of course, she won—rightly. That’s how it’s been.”

Jennifer Simard and Megan Hilty in rehearsal for Death Becomes Her. Jenny Anderson

But never mind. Nightly, on stage, both she and Hilty are winners—dual victory being part of the secret of this partnership. Simard follows some advice given her by Faith Prince, a co-star from Disaster currently in Boop! The Musical. “I knew this, but she affirmed it,” Simard says. “One of the worst things you can do on stage as a comedienne is die for laughs. You must throw the ball to your playing partner and let them win sometime. If they win, you win.”

What keeps Hilty and Simard’s comic engines charging away on all cylinders is that the audiences appreciate what they are doing up there. “Oh, yeah, you can feel it,” Simard insists. “The audience really is with us from the get-go. It just grows as the show goes. They’re not ahead of the jokes, but they’re right there because they know who we are as characters.”

If Simard had a bucket list of roles she would like to do, it would come from this bucket. “I don’t have an aversion to revivals, but I love originating new roles. I didn’t see this role coming at all. Originality is my dream. I really want to create something from the incubation.”

And next? “I do this next,” she says, confident and content. “After the Tony Awards on June 8, it’ll be nice to do this gig for a while. It’s a wonderful show. I’m in no hurry to spread my wings.”

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Screening at Cannes: Directing Debuts from Kristen Stewart, Scarlett Johannson and Harris Dickinson

Three actors made their directorial debuts at the 78th annual Cannes Film Festival. From left, Kristen Stewart, Scarlett Johannson and Harris Dickinson. Stephane Cardinale/Corbis via Getty Images; Lionel Hahn/Getty Images; Daniele Venturelli/WireImage

“Are you fucking kidding me? Okaay,” crowed Kristen Stewart at the world premiere of The Chronology of Water, her debut as a bona-fide filmmaker after eight years of struggling to adapt Lidia Yukovich’s acclaimed memoir for the big screen. Vibrating with nervous excitement during her opening remarks, she thanked all of her collaborators with a fierce joy, ending with a dedication to the book’s author. “To Lidia Yuknavitch,” she said, “for writing and spewing the very face of fuck! Thank you for your trickle, thank you for the gush. Thank you for everything! Now let’s rip off this bandage and watch this fucking movie!” 

Actors acted like directors this past week during the Cannes Film Festival, and their newfound roles were just as surprising and convincing as their acclaimed performances in front of the camera. Along with Stewart’s messy but vibrant debut, Scarlett Johannson debuted her rookie film Eleanor the Great, a touching work starring nonagenarian June Squibb that was sweetly reminiscent of quirky ’90s indie comedies. And up-and-coming Brit hottie Harris Dickinson followed up his steamy turn co-starring with Nicole Kidman in feminist sex fantasy Babygirl by getting behind the camera himself and making Urchin, a searing and startlingly mature piece of social realism.

The trio of films were not in the Official Competition at Cannes, instead appearing in the sidebar section Un Certain Regard, a less high-pressure berth that offers a more supportive showcase for new and emerging filmmakers. All three have enough commercial potential—and artistic merit—to guarantee a commercial release, if not an end-of-year awards campaign. (Sony Pictures Classics had already picked up Eleanor the Great before the festival selected it). But what’s so striking are their stylistic differences, and how they reflect each actor’s sensibilities.

True to form, The Chronology of Water is all Kristen Stewart—and might arguably be the most Kristen Stewart movie ever made: aggressively aggrieved, almost comically confrontational, hyperventilating with an in-your-face attitude that belies a self-consciously juvenile insecurity. At times, the drama delivers genuinely harrowing shocks; but interspersed are moments so over-thought and over-wrought—all lookkit-me camera angles, word-salad sound design, and flutter-cut montages—that it plays like the product of an addled film student more eager to provoke than impress. 

Imogen Poots in Kristen Stewart’s directorial debut, The Chronology of Water. Cannes Film Festival

And then there’s Imogen Poots. The wide-eyed intensity and physicality that Poots brings to her portrayal of Yuknavitch—from sexually abused teen to weathered-and-wise middle-aged mother—is revelatory. And that’s clearly due to Stewart’s clarity of vision. The way that Poots expertly delivers bursts of anger, fleeting moments of joy, wallowed self-pity and adrift soulfulness proves that an assured directorial hand is working behind the camera to modulate those mood swings.

The strongest parts of The Chronology of Water are those character reveals—especially the quieter ones, when a wrung-out Yuknavitch, after a punishing gauntlet of sex, drugs, and alcohol, slowly finds the path to redemption by writing her way out of personal oblivion. That’s when Stewart’s dogged devotion to the source material shines though in a way that signals a major filmmaking talent.

With Eleanor the Great, Johannson is taking a much less ambitious stab at directing, one that feels more like a test run than a full-throated attempt to become an auteur. It also feels like the project was inspired by her 94-year-old lead actor. “When we were shooting my film,” she said in her opening remarks at the film’s premiere, “I said, ‘if I do my job right, my dream is to see June on the Croisette in Cannes.’ And here we are! So it really is a dream come true.”  

Eleanor the Great is modest in style but emotionally rich, a comic drama where Floridian retiree Eleanor, after the death of her longtime best friend, moves back to New York City to be with her overworked adult daughter and genial but detached grandson. Faced with empty days and lonely nights, she starts to deliver little white lies that eventually snowball into an avalanche of deception. 

June Squibb in Scarlett Johannson’s directorial debut, Elenor the Great. Courtesy of Sony PIctures Classics

As a director, Johannson trusts Squibb to carry the film, letting the actor’s genial nature lead a light-hearted story into sadder depths. “It’s about friendship, it’s about grief, it’s about forgiveness,” said Johannson. “And I think those are all things that we can use a lot of more of these days.” 

But of these three Cannes-fêted neophyte helmers, the twentysomething Dickinson is the one who delivers a real cinematic wallop with Urchin—a film he not only directed but also wrote. His look at the self-destructive patterns of a young man on the fringes of East London feels so fully formed, so confident in its plot points and performances, so strikingly restrained in its direction and so absolutely wrenching overall that the result feels preternaturally mature for such a young actor-turned-director. 

Skeptics might call Urchin a knock-off of iconic kitchen-sink miserabilists like Ken Loach and Mike Leigh—British masters who have devoted their astonishing careers to chronicling society’s disenfranchised and alienated. But there’s something different enough about Dickinson’s approach that he feels more like a successor to these directors than an imitator.   

Like Stewart and Johansson, Dickinson’s acting acumen certainly explains the uniformly absorbing performances—especially from lead Frank Dillane, a frustratingly charming mess too prone to self-sabotage despite his best efforts to resist the temptations of drugs and petty theft. But it’s the cumulative power of his storytelling, a slow-burn episodic script that builds confidently and irreversibly towards tragedy, that heralds Dickinson as such a promising new voice. There’s no doubt more will come from all three multi-hyphenate stars.



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