Wes Anderson’s first film had an awful reception. But it proves there is success in failure
Bottle Rocket had some of the worst test screening in the history of Columbia Pictures: moviegoers, in groups, left the theatre throughout the premiere, walking right by Anderson, grimacing in the back row. It grossed $1m against its $7m production budget. But another movie studio liked certain aspects, such as Anderson’s composition and attention to detail, and green-lit his next feature film, Rushmore, with an even bigger budget. By putting himself out there—making a 13-minute short film with two good friends—Anderson convinced a studio to fund that same story as a full-length film, which, though a spectacular flop, led to his next chance. He seized it.
Maybe your first written piece, musical production or creative effort is, taken as a whole, disastrous. But show it to the right audience (a great writer, musician or artist) and there could be a fraction of worthy material that, with refinement over time, propels you to greatness.
Riding a Peloton is bizarre. The firm’s rise is indicative of larger cultural and economic trends
Within the first five minutes of my first ever Peloton ride, I was certain I had to write about it. The workout was good; the Peloton experience extraordinary. In a variety of ways, the company has reinvented working out and what it means to be in the fitness industry.
Before even taking a seat on the bike, the first thought that came to me was a meme I had seen years ago, a tweet, actually:
Ironically, my circumstances were not too far off. House-sitting for my aunt and uncle, I found their Peloton in the corner of their pool-pingpong-movie room, which I would not call the coolest room in the house. That would be the living room, which has 30-foot-tall ceilings, framed artwork and a wall of windows that reveals a winter creek and forest.
Mounting the bike, I woke the 12-by-24-inch LED screen, which then asked me to log in, Netflix-style. The layout resembled that of a streaming service: an assortment of thumbnails, each with a title, and duration in minutes. I chose “Beginner”, which was 20 minutes.
The host of the workout was objectively attractive: flawless skin, high cheek bones, super fit. She welcomed me to the Peloton family--and I say welcomed me, and not, welcomed everyone, because of her uncanny eye contact and attitude throughout the ride. Her eyes were locked on mine--like in the center of my pupils--for at least 15 of the 20 minutes. Over and over she referred to me as “Boss”. As time went on I realized this was unlike any workout I had ever done.
The host, or personal trainer, took on many identities in the span of 20 minutes: comedian, dancer, entertainer—new friend. She hit the molly rock and the woah a couple times, and used language I used when I was in college: “We’re getting lit!” Controlling the music playing from the screen’s speakers, she queued Nicki Minaj, Post Malone and The Weekend. I could picture dads, moms, aunts and uncles across the country digesting her mannerisms and jokes, her expressions and movements, which they would then imitate in awkward interactions with their adult children and younger colleagues. At times I felt like I was in Rick and Morty, watching “interdimensional cable”. If you’re not familiar, just picture snippets of strange-looking, cartoon people making funny, slightly off-putting remarks.
The Peloton experience, however bizarre, is indicative of larger movements. Culturally I hear how my generation parties less and shows more dedication to our career growth at an earlier stage than previous generations did. Speaking only from anecdotal evidence, in conversation with my parents or listening to podcasts hosted by 40 year-olds, I mostly agree. Although I have seen a fair share of my peers sleeping with randoms and snorting cocaine, often at once, my generation is driven by social media to uphold a healthy and goal-oriented lifestyle, potentially to a fault.
Economically, Peloton can be categorized with other firms selling expensive gadgets spotlighted during the pandemic. Lululemon’s $500m acquisition of Mirror, who offers a $39 monthly subscription for virtual workouts displayed on a $1500, full-height reflective screen, was defended by CEO Calvin McDonald: “We also believe that at-home virtual workouts will be an additive component of sweat regimens well into the future even as studios reopen." Time will tell whether these companies remain viable when people aren’t forced to stay home.
Scott Galloway, professor of marketing at NYU Stern, is convinced Peloton is poised to do so. Galloway outlines the “T Algorithm”, defining the eight qualities that he posits give a company a chance at a trillion-dollar valuation: three of them are a recurring revenue bundle, career acceleration, and something Galloway calls, “Benjamin Button”. Peloton’s $2000 bike is coupled with a $39 monthly fee, and its 93% retention rate secures cash flow. The firm is a career launchpad, poaching its instructors from SoulCycle and Equinox, “offering triple the compensation, equity, and a platform that offers exposure to thousands online,” not to mention 3m monthly subscribers. Lastly, “Benjamin Button” denotes Peloton’s network effects: “the more customers, the greater the benefits from the (rabid) community”, whose official Facebook page has over 330,000 members who engage in 23 posts an hour.
Immediately after my ride, Peloton listed other recommended videos to watch, and concluded the workout with a sleek “by Peloton Studios” end card, reinforcing its shoulder-rubbing with industry-leading content, tech platforms. I was left sweaty and tired from the workout, but energized by the amusing experience and curious about the company’s fate.
Tenet establishes a recurring flaw in the storytelling of a director with $2bn in movie earnings
I know what you’re thinking. “You expect me to believe Christopher Nolan, director of The Dark Knight ($535m), Dunkirk ($527m) and Interstellar ($702m), has a problem with the way he tells stories?” I want you to at least consider it. Approach this video essay with an open mind, because I think it makes a compelling argument.
Moreover, I think Nolan’s propensity to, at times, provide the audience with unnecessary information and dialogue written or delivered in an off-putting way is a lesson for other forms of storytelling. We should avoid describing a scene any more than necessary. This approach, omitting information and thus immersing the reader in their own interpretation, has been dubbed the “Iceberg theory”, attributed to Ernest Hemingway, but also evident in the work of many writers before him, like Mark Twain. Give the audience some ingredients to work with, then let them cook up something using their own imagination, probably richer and more satisfying than whatever you could have served up.
Another application: avoid using two words when one will do. A recent blunder I saw on the “about” page of one of the most successful designers in London: “Driven by a fascination for timeless objects and fashion that celebrates craftsmanship and design over transient trends…” Transient trends. Damn. One writer I know has a $5 dictionary open on his coffee table at all times, which he and his children reference whenever they come across a new word. As far as cool, sophisticated parent moves go, this one is up there, and I’ll incorporate it whether I have kids or not.
White Russians at the corner café
Lastly, yesterday I submitted my application for “Still Standing”, a one-year artist residency program by real estate firm StoneHenge NYC, who is providing free housing within their residential portfolio for 20 artists, in exchange for regular commissions of their work. The program takes place from March 2021 to February 2022, and applicants will be notified of their status in February. The point of the program is to show the world how, despite the pandemic, New York is still standing: “By easing the financial burden of city-living, we strive to give qualifying artists the time and space to create groundbreaking work, while leading New York City into its next chapter.”
Although I’m not expecting to be one of the twenty finalists, I figured I might as well apply. For the “Artist Submission” part of the application, where artists were asked to submit 1,000 words, 3 minutes, or 5 images fulfilling the intentionally minimal prompt, “I stand with New York City”, I submitted the following short story, loosely inspired by some of my favorite memories in New York over the years.
I Stand With New York City
Bathed in red light, Ted sipped a Negroni, its bitter taste rousing his tongue. Unintentionally early, but intentionally alone, he struck up a conversation with the bartender, a 24-year-old from Atlanta.
“It’s a great gig. Earn enough, meet lots of people,” he said, peeling an orange. “Any city you go to, there is a bar that can use a bartender. Pick somewhere you want to live, and go.”
Gradually the club filled in. It was chic, similar in ambiance to the mid-century mod Sheats-Goldstein Residence, where porn king Jackie Treehorn served The Dude a drugged White Russian. Sunken and perfectly lit, the dance floor was bordered with built-in couches and tables, whose candles illuminated heads bobbing, asses swaying. In the span of 15 minutes Ted grooved with a charming Brit--funky dancer--shared a spliff with a Bogotano--not a dancer--and chatted with a Bulgarian, who insisted the house music was better where he was from (a fishing village on the Black Sea).
As the night went on the DJ lost the plot, and heading for the door Ted tried to get the attention of the friendly bartender (what was his name?), too busy or disinterested to notice. Cold and tired, he hopped in the back of an unmarked car. It started to snow, the windows fogging, enveloping him in a boozy blanket. Somehow the driver had the headrest TVs showing Ex Machina in pristine resolution; the sound system played the dialogue. It was the part where Nathan and Ava dance to Oliver Cheatham’s disco gem, “Get Down, It’s Saturday Night”, their figures in sync in front of the honeycomb, neon light fixture adorning the cement wall. Too. Good.
Waking with a piercing headache, Ted crumpled into the chair by the window. It was his favorite chair: chartreuse, with a busted cushion that looked like room-temperature butter. His phone buzzed: “Alert, blizzard...traffic ban...stay home.” He tore the curtains open: coke-white, a stormy sea of sugar and cream surging from every direction. In the blink of an eye he was dressed head to toe, slamming the door shut. He took the stairs, leaping like a kid down each flight, whistling to the silky sax of Stan Getz and João Gilberto’s “É Preciso Perdoar”.
Silence. He had never--not once--heard the city this quiet. Strolling in the middle of deserted boulevards, Ted saw a dozen people over the course of three hours. Reluctant to damage his camera, periodically he would capture the moments that caught his eye: kids laughing; parents panting; fat snowflakes that shone amber as they descended in front of traffic lights, then melted on the tongue of a silver-haired man in a purple beanie.
Spotting an alluring patch of light around a corner, Ted heard a voice--that of a woman, accented, French, maybe Arabic--filtered by the mounds of snow burying the streets and cars and signs and trees. Singing alone, in a chocolate coat salted with snow, she was framed by the warm light of the café, where inside silhouetted diners held steaming mugs of mulled wine.
“Et chaque matin...
On prend l'café au lait au lit
Avec des gâteaux et des croissants chauds
On prend l'café au lait au lit
C'que ça peut-être bon, nom de nom !”
“You have a beautiful voice,” Ted said.
“Thenk you.”
“You like to sing in this weather?”
“I leek it more,” she said, her “guttural r” prominent, as if she was clearing her throat. “Peepul come out of the café and bring me warm dreenks. I love the rain, especially.”
“Where do you go when it rains?”
“Below a bridge.”
“How does it affect business?”
“Pardon?”
“The rain--do you earn more or less on rainy days?”
“Less, bien sûr. But it used to be better. Twenty years ago. Crowds, olways, every day, stopping to leesen, to seeng along.”
“Not any more?”
“Peepul are too beezey.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I was, too--at first. But I came to love it.”
“Why is that?” Ted asked.
The woman turned, looking up at the purple-blue sky, the crows flapping past apartment windows that shone gold.
“Back then, I think a lot of peepul came over just because they were following the crowd. Now that there’s no crowds, when only a andfool of peepul, like you, come leesen, I know they really mean it, and--”
“We’re here because we want to be,” Ted said.
“C'est ça,” she said.
They smiled.
Thanks for reading. See you next week.