The phantom thread that binds us

The first time I saw Phantom Thread, I wasn't in the mood for a challenging film. I was celebrating my birthday with my daughter who’d flown home from D.C. to surprise me. It was a swirling weekend of joy that started with dinner with friends who’d all been scheming with my daughter to surprise me on Friday night, followed by 48 delicious hours doing all of my favorite things with my favorite person in the world.

We stayed up into the wee hours streaming ridiculous television (American Crime Story, in which she told me when to close my eyes at the gruesome bits related to the Versace murderer’s crime spree). We ate at our favorite haunts — Nonie’s for breakfast and dinner at Del Rossi’s. And, of course, we saw a movie. Because I love being in a cinema more than any other thing on earth, and my daughter knew she’d have to indulge me.

It was the run up to Oscars and I was eager to see Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread, which had just opened at the local cineplex. Anderson, a singular writing and directing talent, is not always a filmmaker whose work hits home for me. His fascination with odd and controlling men (The Master, There Will Be Blood) makes me uncomfortable and annoyed at times. I probably should have known better than to combine my exuberant weekend with the downer that can be an Anderson film. But how could I resist seeing Daniel Day-Lewis in his last acting role alongside the promise of women wearing fabulous fashion from the fifties?

It turned out to be the perfect mismatch. Our jubilant girls weekend ground to a halt when met face-to-face with Anderson’s meticulous, dysfunctional romance. A masterpiece it may be, but it felt devoid of emotional kindness, grace and love. The relationship at the core of the film was downright disturbing. My daughter and I stared at each other with bulging eyes and weary looks when the credits rolled. What was that? We pretty much hated it, went straight to Del Rossi’s, and drank a fair amount of wine.

Weeks later, my friend Mimi mentioned that she had just seen Phantom Thread and really liked it. Mimi, a discerning moviegoer, made me think that maybe I missed something the first time. Had I just not been in the mood for the film’s unconventional romance? It was nominated for six Academy Awards after all. In the spirit of being open minded about highly decorated films that I really sort of hate, I decided to see Phantom Thread a second time (à la La La Land).

Mimi and I agreed to see it together at our small local theater, which was hosting a movie club night. We not only saw the film but also talked about it afterward in a discussion group guided by a film teacher. Sure enough, once I’d seen the film again and listened to a very engaging talkback session, I saw many extraordinary elements of artistry. I had a stronger appreciation for its Hitchcockian references (the dissonant shards of amped-up music, the half-lit faces that left us searching for motives). The costumes were, of course, impeccable. The acting sublime.  The plot twists unexpected. All of it combined to display an auteur’s mastery.

And still, I really didn’t like the film. It was intentionally challenging and I usually like provocative filmmaking. But this film’s emotional core and the coolness of the characters’ interior lives were just too disturbing; it unnerved me. We don’t have control over much in our own lives, but we do have control over how we engage with people in our closest relationships. And this, this.

What I did love about the film was its carefully curated world. It was shot with just the right degree of graininess to evoke the era. It was edited, lit, and scored with unerring precision. Even its storyline, which didn’t try to please, was impressive in its uncompromising portrayal of two people in interdependent flawed love. Of course, I may never eat mushrooms again, but that’s another story.

At least the story flowed consistently. I could follow Phantom Thread start-to-finish. I may not have liked it, but I got it.

These days, in our own lives, I wish I could at least understand the storyline I don’t like. We’re forced to derive narrative flow from a concatenation of YouTube videos, Facebook posts, and unpredictable tweets. Bits and pieces of story bubble up and subside completely unattended. We weave them together to come up with our own version of any story. No wonder dissonance ensues in our culture.

This disruption is induced by Trump, who appears to like to keep people guessing virtually all of the time, and supported by 24/7 news coverage that elevates the smallest part of a story to breaking news. It’s all so overwhelming and difficult to parse into meaningful information that many of us have just looked away.

But I don’t want to look away. In some strange way, I wish our cultural moment was more like an Anderson film. I may not like it, but at least I could comprehend it. Without a clear narrative, we have no real story to hang onto. Nothing to inspire or guide us. We need story. But what we have is a steady stream of raw footage that makes no sense. Without a skilled editor even reality television is unwatchable.

Like the “phantom thread” of the film’s title — a reference to an overworked seamstress’s hands at night, which continue to go through the motions of rapid-paced stitching even when there is no cloth to sew — I keep trying to construct narrative based on years of experience. I keep seeking it, longing for it, expecting it. I keep trying maybe even when it’s not there.

That’s what we all share now. The invisible habit of democracy. The longing to find meaning in the American dream. The hope that it’ll all be all right. The expectation of unity and civility. If only we can keep knitting ourselves together, persistently, without thinking. I believe it’s just who we are as Americans to keep reaching out, to understand the path forward. It’s certainly who I hope we can still be.

The unreliable narrator in the age of Trump

Wayne C. Booth is not a household name, but maybe he should be. A respected author, scholar, and distinguished professor of English at the University of Chicago, Booth's work focused on the art of rhetoric in fiction. As The New York Times summed up in its 2005 obituary of Booth: "[he] illuminated the means by which authors seduce, cajole and more than occasionally lie to their readers in the service of narrative."

His most lasting contribution to the study of rhetoric may be the term "unreliable narrator, " which he coined in his 1961 book The Rhetoric of Fiction (University of Chicago Press). The term quickly took hold as a way to describe a character who may not be credible or trusted, but who shapes how a story is told. 

Unreliable narrators often add drama to a plot and tension to a story line. Does the narrator know the real story, or only parts of it? Does a narrator's upbringing, worldview, or mental health sway the narrative in untrustworthy ways? And how do we know exactly which characters are telling the truth? Whose story can we trust?

An unreliable narrator may be apparent early in a story. Think about Forrest Gump, the narrator whose worldview is so naive that we're not sure we can fully trust him at first. As the story unfolds, we see that while Gump's character may not discern complex truths, he's incapable of dishonesty. His narration simply needs a sort of modern-day translation, which we're only too happy to provide because of his sweet, innocent behavior. We go along happily for the ride once we understand how to perceive this character.

More often, the unreliable narrator suffers from a delusion that is self-inflicted (the alcoholic narrator Rachel in The Girl on the Train) or something more sinister (the villain Keyser Söze in The Usual Suspects). As a dramatic device, these unreliable narrators obfuscate, mislead, and string us along as a story unfolds. They're often revealed at the end of a thriller or mystery so we can enjoy an unexpected twist and a satisfying ending.

Then there are dense narratives filled with unreliable narrators whose purpose is to confuse us as much as possible, all of the time. Films like The Matrix or Memento or the television show Lost are good examples. These stories traffic in continual confusion, packaged as entertainment. There is often no real beginning, middle, or end to the story structure. As soon you think you've found a logical story line, it unravels before you. It's a nonstop rollercoaster of illogical logic.

Fast forward to America in 2017. It's a time in which unreliable narrators have spilled over from fiction into the reality of our everyday lives, a by-product of our post-truth culture. Americans are forced to ask themselves pretty much daily: Who is telling the truth and whose narrative can I trust? Can I trust the media? Our president? A friend's latest post on Facebook?

When unreliable narrators abound in real life, it's not entertaining and it's not a thrill ride. It's confusing and exhausting. There are no neat endings to wrap things up. Our rapid-fire technologies don't help. Social media masquerades as fact-based journalism. Artificial intelligence encroaches on our native human decision making. We've even invented a technology, "virtual reality," to create an alternate world that feels like our real one.

Sure, societies have wrestled with warring narratives and disruptive technologies since the beginning of time. But it seems especially treacherous now, doesn't it? Today, conflicting, continually changing "facts" form a sort of 24/7 entertainment that we can't look away from. These untested, untrusted narratives have previously been the bastion of fiction. But now...

A recent article in The Guardian, "The lying game: why unreliable TV narrators matter in the Trump era," showcases how unreliable narrators have made the leap from fiction to real life in unsettling ways. In this article, writer and director Joe Ahearne talks about the dangers of comparing carefully orchestrated fictional constructs to stories told by politicians in offhanded ways. "Great drama comes from when you have two irreconcilable viewpoints, then there’s a battle and somebody wins. But what’s happening now is that facts seem to be irrelevant. Reality is at stake,” he says.

Is it possible that unreliable narrators could help us both diagnosis and cure our cultural whirlpool of truthiness? Maybe it's time to turn back to Booth for answers. Through his lens, we can immerse ourselves in our favorite films, television shows, and novels and learn how unreliable narrators spin a tale to their advantage. If we pay attention, we can recognize how a narrator acts deceptively to pursue his goals, when a narrator is lying to himself, or when a narrator is unreliable through no fault of her own. 

Then comes the hard part. We must take the time to apply this analysis to the rhetoric of Trump and the media to identify how we're being manipulated as consumers of competing narrative views. Because everyone is spinning stories; some with a disregard for context, others with a contempt for indisputable facts. If we can pinpoint the unreliable narrators in our midst, then we can decide for ourselves who is telling the truth. It's time-consuming work; it should be easier to find facts. But this is the era we live in. The truth is out there. It may just be up to us to find it. 

The intersection of hope

Katrina Kenison writes about the gifts of ordinary days. I enjoy her gentle, probing work, which often centers on the simple pleasures of life. Her focus is on gratitude for our everyday experiences, the ones that virtually all of us can share: sunsets, walks in nature, a home-cooked meal.

Her recent post, "joy, tempered," reflected on the particular joys of the holiday season: twinkling lights, a walk through new-fallen snow, chopping apricots for Christmas cookies. She talked about this year's holiday delights being intertwined with a persistent sense of loss. More than a month after the U.S. presidential election, she admits to grappling with "the profound disconnect between our President elect's values and my own."

She tapped into a sense of helplessness that many of us feel. I know many people who can't bear to follow the news because it's so disturbing to hear the contentious messages that Trump posts on his Twitter feed. Others feel a need to stay informed, but don't know how to speak up when Trump's words and actions veer dangerously close to gutting the ideals that have made America great: civil discourse, a fair and free press, and free speech, among them.

Kenison's post was not a screed. It was not a denial of our president-elect's rightful election. It simply acknowledged a vastly different value system that Trump represents and the sadness that the incoming administration produces in those of us who see these times as those in which, as Kenison neatly sums up, "the civic values, freedoms, and precepts we once took for granted are threatened." 

She offered her thoughts with the hope that we can honor our differences and share them with compassion and understanding. I, too, struggle with how to come to terms with Trump's brazen provocations on social media (nuclear escalation, anyone?) and his inability to embrace the diversity of all Americans, not just the ones he caters to on his thank-you tours. Kenison's careful, reasoned words helped sort through these emotions, offering an olive branch of healing based on an honest discussion of ethical and moral values.

Her blog's "Comments" section proved that not everyone was interested in sharing an open dialogue. Most comments offered thanks for her words; they honored the intent in which she offered them. However, the dissenters told her not to write about politics. Some announced their plans to unsubscribe to her blog because of her political views. 

One comment from a Trump supporter caught my eye in particular. It read, "A stronger military, jobs for those who simply wish to put a roof over their children's heads and put food on the table, or even have affordable insurance to care for sick children....these are not bad things [and why I voted for Trump]."

These words made me stop in my tracks. What makes this Trump supporter think these aren't shared beliefs? 

I'm willing to wager that the vast majority of Americans share these desires, regardless of who they voted for or which political party they support. If we'd talk more with each other, instead of isolating ourselves from one another, we'd know that. Hillary Clinton was as hawkish a candidate as any in 2016. She had the backing of many military generals. I don't think there is any doubt that she would have promoted a stronger military.

There's also no question that President Obama made it a top priority to help Americans put (and keep) a roof over our children's heads and put food on our tables. How? By shepherding us past the great recession with historically low mortgage rates and consistently lowered unemployment rates. While I believe we must accept globalization and automation as part of our economic reality and take personal responsibility to find jobs in this new economy, Trump voters seem to believe that nationalism and corporate welfare are needed to put people back to work in old-era jobs. So let's talk about these diverging views, not make false accusations about each other's motives.

Of course, we all want affordable health insurance to care for our children. But the healthcare system has been broken for decades, long before Obamacare was enacted to promote healthcare for everyone. About 20 years ago, my family was dumped from its health insurance plan with 30 days notice and a premium increase of more than 100 percent. We couldn't afford the new rates and were forced to scramble to find an alternative. Premiums have gone up and benefits have gone down ever since. I believe that the medical/health insurance/pharmaceutical ecosystem holds us all hostage to its unrealistically high costs. A repeal-and-replace Obamacare strategy won't solve this core problem. Others disagree; so let's talk about these differences.

But how, exactly, do we start a dialogue that is based on the similar experiences and hopes we share? And still discuss the root issues and real-world solutions that we disagree on?

I'm going to subscribe to Katrina Kenison's blog for starters. Not because she feels the way I do or voted the way I did, but because she carefully describes her feelings without anger or blame. She helps me understand the deep-seated issues that many Americans are grappling with and that people of all political persuasions should be able to discuss. These are the messages we need to share. Not of right or wrong; good or evil; winners or losers. 

The way forward likely starts with us agreeing on the basic tenets of an America that works for everyone. Yes, this includes a stronger military, a chicken in every pot, and affordable healthcare for all. One side cannot claim these hopes as their own and disparage the rest of us because we don't agree on which policies can deliver these benefits to the American people.

If we are willing to listen, to discuss, to care about all Americans and their experiences and ideas, we might have a chance to settle on common ground and move forward with civility. It's time to subscribe to others' voices, not unsubscribe. It may be the only chance we've got.