Theresa Basile

Our baby girl was born in November 2021, changing our lives forever. The fatigue of raising a newborn hit us immediately. I threw my “no screen time EVER” rule right out the window in the first week of her life. Watching television was the only way I could keep myself awake while breastfeeding. After all, she’s not facing the TV, and she’s too young to absorb or understand what she hears, and it’s better to stay awake than risk dropping her.

A month into her life, I realized that I had a rare opportunity to watch all the movies likely to be nominated for Oscars in the “Big 8” categories (Picture, Director, Acting, Writing) before the ceremony. I had not done this in ten years because I didn’t want to waste time on movies that I didn’t think I would like. But things had changed. I was a nursing mother who fed a baby at least eight times a day. I was made of time.

Could I watch and appreciate the films broken up into twenty- to thirty-minute pieces? Only time would tell.

KING RICHARD

My first “let me watch this movie in chunks” Oscar movie is the one that white feminists on Twitter called out for being about the dad of exceptional women rather than the exceptional women themselves, ignoring the fact that the exceptional women are executive producers of the film and WANTED this story told.

It was smart to start with a biopic, and not just because it’s one of the few movies available to me for free via streaming. I feel less disrupted by starting and stopping the film because I know how it ends. And it feels okay to watch a “slice of life” family film in parts. 

Will Smith does a great job as Richard, especially in the scene where welfare services check in on the family. He stands up for himself and them in a predictable biopic-y speech, but there’s an oh so slight tremble in his voice – he knows the risks of being a Black man in this situation and that defending his family could come with a price. I’m also glad the movie doesn’t neglect the importance of Venus and Serena’s mother.

What will I do if my daughter shows an aptitude in sport, or music, or art…or, lord forbid, being a social media influencer? We’re keeping her off social media right now – what if that catastrophically blows up in our face and she chooses Instagram modeling as an act of rebellion?

DON’T LOOK UP

The baby is asleep, but she won’t be for long. Do I attempt a nap of my own, or stay up late and watch it through so I’m awake when she rises for her next feeding? I hit play and play it by ear.

Thirty minutes in, I check to see how much is left. There are still two hours to go. I’ve heard different iterations of the same joke for half an hour and there are two hours left. I’m not going to make it. This is getting nominated for things? Dear lord. This movie is lecturing me about climate change through a poorly conceived metaphor when every single person involved in making it has (probably) a larger carbon footprint than I do. 

My husband passes through the living room. “Is this movie still going?” He can pick up on the smugness factor even though he’s only paying half-attention. I’m grateful for his distraction since my baby is failing in her duty to interrupt what I’m doing with a hungry wail. In fact, she’s been a little too quiet for a little too long – better check the bassinet.

…And the movie is still going. My husband passes through again. “So, is this movie ‘Bart’s Comet?’” He makes a good point. Note to self – tomorrow, watch “Bart’s Comet.”

Verdict: Good performances, smug script, messy. I preferred Mark Rylance’s amalgam of Jobs/Musk/Bezos/Zuckerberg to Meryl Streep’s Trump/Clinton. I am already pre-tired of the “Don’t Look Up is actually a documentary” Twitter comments. But I did love the running gag with Jennifer Lawrence being mad about having to pay for free snacks. That was the most human part of the whole movie. 

Somehow nominated for: Picture, Score, Editing, and Original Screenplay, even though it should be Adapted Screenplay – based on “Bart’s Comet” 

The next day, I watch “Bart’s Comet.” “Let’s burn down the observatory so this never happens again!” is more pointed and accurate satire than the 2.5 hours I sat through last night. 

THE POWER OF THE DOG

It’s very kind of Jane Campion to divide this film into chapters. Watching it is like I’m reading a book. In fact, that’s what watching King Richard felt like – reading a book. Treating films like novels where I can pick it up for twenty minutes, absorb myself in it, and then come back to it later. It’s not my preferred way of watching films, but if the story is really good, breaking up the viewings doesn’t ruin the experience. Necessity is the mother of invention, and mothering makes innovation necessary.

This film stays with me through each feeding and beyond. The ambiguity in the relationships, the way I’m kept on my toes guessing who is the player and who’s being played, and the growing sense of dread haunts me days after watching it. I will return to this one in a few years, watch it straight through, and look for the clues that I missed the first time.

Nominated for: Picture, Director (Campion), Actor (Cumberbatch), Supporting Actor (Plemons, Smit-McPhee), Supporting Actress (Dunst), Adapted Screenplay, Cinematography, Score, Production Design, Film Editing, Sound
Should have been nominated for: Best Supporting Captioning for “[uneasy music playing]”

THE LOST DAUGHTER

I am a better mother than this. I am definitely a better mother than this. Is this film a guide on what NOT to do as a parent? 

My husband is half-watching this one, too. He watches younger Leda perform casual cruelty on her daughters, turns to me, and says, “You know you’re nothing like this mother, right?”

I needed to hear that. I’ve already cried in the bathroom with guilt over feeling frustrated with raising a newborn, or heaving an irritated sigh once or twice when I should have spoken in my soothing sing-song voice instead. I feel guilty for being upset, even momentarily, with a tiny person who isn’t doing anything wrong, who’s just being a baby, for huffing “Really?” when she falls asleep on my chest and I put her in the bassinet and she jolts awake. 

But feeling frustrated doesn’t make someone a bad mother. This film does an excellent job at making me sympathize with Leda’s feelings while condemning her actions. There’s something cathartic about watching her just get up and leave when she’s had enough – something I would never, ever do, but for a second, it’s nice to pretend that I would. 

Also noteworthy – Leda listing all of her daughter’s needs, emergency numbers, to the babysitter right before going on her trip. She’s often cruel and borderline abusive to her kids but she still has all those details memorized. Maybe she’s resentful about the responsibilities of motherhood because her co-parent and husband – in the words of Dorothy Parker* – ain’t shit.

*Not the real Dorothy Parker’s words.

THE EYES OF TAMMY FAYE

A very pregnant Tammy Faye’s water breaks the second she’s about to have sex with the hot Christian musician who’s been pining for her while her husband Spider-man 2.0  ignores her. In the next scene, she’s in the hospital with her new baby daughter. 

My childbirth classes taught me that few pregnancies end with the birthing person’s water breaking and being rushed to the hospital. Births rarely happen that quickly. My daughter’s certainly didn’t – I had my first contractions over 24 hours before she was born and didn’t go to the hospital until 7 hours later. When my water finally broke, I didn’t even know, and it was at least 8 more hours until I had to start pushing.

But I’ve learned that while only a small percentage of pregnancies end with the water breaking and a rush to the hospital, 100% of movie pregnancies end that way. 

As for the movie, I didn’t know Tammy Faye was pro-LGBT. Good for her. I doubt she was as innocent of the money laundering as the movie insinuates she was, but she’s long gone, so let her rest in peace. Too bad Jessica might not squeak by with a nomination. Maybe the next movie she does will be her turn.  

On February 8th, the Oscar nominations are announced, and Jessica Chastain is indeed nominated for Best Actress. The day before the ceremony, she is the perceived frontrunner, having won the SAG and Critics’ Choice Award. Lesson: never count anyone out! 

CODA

She’s going to start signing, right? She has to start signing. She looks so stiff and awkward in her audition. Her Deaf family is in the rafters, watching her. They snuck in just to watch her audition. SHE’S DOING IT! HER PERFORMANCE HAS COME ALIVE BECAUSE SHE’S SIGNING! She’s shaking off that Teen thing where she sees her flawed but loving family as a burden and embraces them as being a fundamental part of who she is. I knew this scene was coming, it was beat-by-beat predictable, and I’m still crying because it’s beautiful. And, sure, because of the hormonal surge that comes with the letdown reflex. 

Does my baby understand happy tears? She’s only cried from hunger, gas, and wet diapers, and perhaps the existential crisis of climate change. How old will she be when happy tears enter her frame of reference? Or does she already understand because she’s seen me weep with joy at each one of her milestones?

A day before the ceremony, CODA is predicted to upset The Power of the Dog as Best Picture. The film is my sentimental favorite, but several d/Deaf people have commented that the movie feels like it’s made for hearing people, and I *am* hearing, so I’m reacting to a movie created with an audience like me in mind.  

I also can’t ignore the many good points that Jenna Fischtrom Beacon brings up in her blog post – especially, how did the family navigate the hearing world before Ruby was born, and how did they not have a professional interpreter that is their legal right thanks to the ADA? I think we’ll both be happy when Troy Kotsur wins Best Supporting Actor, though. 

TICK, TICK…BOOM!  

Another movie we watch in one sitting. Breaking it up into chunks doesn’t feel like it will work for a musical. 

Ten minutes in and I’m already finding new reasons to admire Lin-Manuel Miranda. Can we commission him to make a good film version of Rent? 

The diner scene! It’s filled with Broadway people! I can identify more than the average viewer but certainly less than some of my good friends who live and breathe Broadway.

The baby sits in our laps for the beginning of the film but dozes off during her last feed of the night. So far, she’s not showing any recognition of the bright screen in front of her. I don’t know how much longer that will last. The second she starts to pay attention to the TV, the TV is going off…unless she’s facing me and breastfeeding. 

But even if she does pick up on some of this movie, it’s a musical, so it doesn’t count, right? Because exposing her to music is a good thing! 

I realize that I don’t know the rules, I don’t know what’s actually best for her, and I don’t know how to navigate this part of childrearing.

THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH

We watch this one when she’s awake, too. I know it’s a good idea to expose her to Shakespeare this early! That’s why I’m reading a sonnet to her every day. She won’t understand them but she’ll be exposed to so much beautiful language that she’s bound to absorb some of it.

Denzel is, unsurprisingly, as good as the critics say he is, a Macbeth who is uneasy about his own ambition until he’s not anymore. Kathryn Hunter deserves awards recognition as the Witches, too, but she’s unlikely to get it. 

ENCANTO

The third movie in a row that we enjoy in one sitting, save for one interruption when she needs a diaper change. The Madrigal family is chaotic and loving and reminds me in some ways of my extended family on my mother’s side. Can I commission Lin-Manuel to write a musical about our Irish-Italian Catholic clan based in Staten Island?

I have an intense negative reaction to Abuela’s treatment of Mirabel through most of the movie. I forgive her at the end when we realize that generational trauma is the real villain of the story.

The music is catchy and the baby starts playing the soundtrack ad nauseum every day. That’s right, the baby, not me, her mother. 

ALWAYS BE MY MAYBE (2019)

I take a break from Oscar contenders, watch a rom-com from 2019, and almost die laughing at this exchange:

Jenny: You can’t change the world without influential people.
Marcus: So you need to know famous people in order to make a difference?
Jenny: It helps. Look at everything Leonardo Di Caprio has done for climate change.
Marcus: What has he done for climate change?
Jenny: He’s working on it.

A Netflix movie rips apart the self-importance of another Netflix movie starring Leonardo Di Caprio that will premiere two years later. Amazing. Give this movie a retroactive Oscar.

BEING THE RICARDOS

Lucille Ball is pregnant and smoking and I’m cringing because it’s historically accurate but hard to watch. 

As for the rest of the movie, Aaron Sorkin is a writer I like and don’t like in equal measure, and I liked this movie more than I didn’t. Not a ringing endorsement, I know, and turning J. Edgar Hoover into the story’s hero is…a choice, but I enjoyed watching the Lucille Ball character conceptualize onscreen physical comedy and the attention to detail she gave every blocking choice and line.

SPENCER

After watching The Crown and listening to the five-part “You’re Wrong About” Princess Diana episodes, I’m a little Diana-ed out. What can this movie add to my perception of the people’s princess? Can KStew be better at playing her than Emma Corrin in The Crown?

Stewart’s performance is a mixed bag for me. She delivers almost every line with the same breathless cadence, but sometimes she really does sound like Diana. I like her best in the scenes with young William and Harry. Is this reaction influenced at all by my new role as a mother, and thinking about how those boys, those young men, had to live without their mother for so long?

Oh, here’s Sally Hawkins to tell Diana “I’ve got a big LESBIAN crush on you!” That scene was well-played by both Stewart and Hawkins.

NIGHTMARE ALLEY

A dead baby in a jar is one of Willem Dafoe’s collection of oddities. I expect the new mother in me to be upset at the image, but the feeling of revulsion doesn’t come. Maybe I would have felt something if the movie wasn’t about carnivals, or if the film was directed by someone other than Guillermo del Toro. For del Toro, this feels tame.

I don’t have much else to say about this movie except that the presence of Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara makes this the weirdest Carol reunion ever. I also liked the ending.

 
WEST SIDE STORY

We watch this when my brother (and the baby’s godfather) comes to visit. He starts singing along during “Maria.” He pauses and says “sorry.” We encourage him to continue because we’d rather hear him sing than Ansel Elgort.

This is one of my favorite musicals and I like this adaptation more than the 1961 version. I love the direction, the cinematography, the choreography. Ariana DeBose is getting all the awards she deserves, and Rachel Zegler and Mike Faist deserved to be nominated with her. There’s so much to love about this film, so, Steven, why the casting of Ansel Elgort? I know very few details about the sexual assault allegation against him, so I’m basing my commentary on the performance alone: why did you get it so right with Maria, Riff, Anita, Bernardo, the Sharks, the Jets, Anybodys, the new role for Rita Moreno, and cast someone aggressively “meh” as Tony AND give him a extra song to boot? His performance isn’t bad, it’s just…fine. A better Tony might have made this my favorite movie of the year. But I’ll show this and the 1961 version to my daughter when she’s old enough. I hope she loves musicals. 

PARALLEL MOTHERS

Oh, good, a movie where infant crib death is an important plot point – I was looking forward to watching my LITERAL WORST FEAR play out onscreen while feeding my baby. Note to self: check out doesthedogdie.com for any future films that center on motherhood.

Ah, it’s a “switched at birth” story. I don’t know how often this scenario plays out in real life. I look down and my baby is nestled at my breast, fast asleep. Does she look more like me or her father? Could she have been switched at the hospital? The thought is ludicrous, and yet…if she weren’t really mine, would I know? If I’ve held her and loved her all this time, isn’t she really mine regardless of biology?

I don’t for a second really think that my daughter was switched at the hospital. Our friends are right, she has my eye color and her father’s twinkle. But Parallel Mothers is smart to set the frame of the Spanish Civil War around this story, showing people who lost trace of their ancestors because of war and brutality, grounding a soap opera plot in something all too real and painful. 

BELFAST

It’s another movie night, and we’re going to shake off the pain of the traumatic ending of Spider-man: No Way Home by watching a lighthearted romp during The Troubles in Northern Ireland! I somehow doubt this is going to feel like Derry Girls.

An hour and thirty-eight minutes run time? We can watch it in one night after the baby goes to bed? I’m already biased in this movie’s favor. This is almost enough to make me forgive Kenneth Branagh for cheating on Emma Thompson. And Jamie Dornan is good enough in the role as Pa to elicit just one honeybee-themed joke from each of us. (Watch Wild Mountain Thyme. The preposterous script and accents combined with the breathtakingly gorgeous Irish countryside makes it the himbo of movies.)

The kid in this film is ridiculously cute without being cutesy. I can’t imagine being a parent during The Troubles or in any kind of armed conflict, having to worry if the simple act of walking to school can turn into bloodshed…but then again, I live in America, where bloodshed is more likely to happen in school. 

Every year during the Oscars season, there’s a debate of whether voters and audiences prefer an “upper” (CODA) or a “downer” (The Power of the Dog). This movie manages to be both at once, which is why I’m not ruling it out as a surprise Best Picture win.

LICORICE PIZZA

Subtitle: “The term is actually ‘ephebophilia.’ ”

Is this movie for real? They’re trying to sell me on a romance between a 25-year-old woman and a fifteen-year-old boy? Why is John Michael Higgins speaking in an offensive fake Japanese accent? What does that scene add to the movie? Why is there a Black girl whose sole purpose of the movie is to try to sell Gary a mattress while making sex eyes at him? Is this supposed to be Gary’s hormonal teenage boy fantasy or is every girl in this film really that desperate to hop on his dick? Why does Paul Thomas Anderson need to scratch that itch to live out his adolescent fantasies onscreen when he’s married to Maya Rudolph?

I feel like I need a shower after watching this, and I’m going to be mad if this wins anything it was nominated for, and yet I still think Alana Haim should have been nominated for Best Actress. I didn’t like one minute of Alana and Gary’s romance but I bought it, and that was largely because of her performance.


DRIVE MY CAR

It takes me over ten tries to finish this movie, and not because of its length. Forty minutes/third feeding in, the subtitles on HBO Max disappear. I turn it off and on again, try to resume the film, and still no subtitles. After several attempts over two days, I give up and rent the film on a different streaming platform. I see just how necessary subtitles are, given that the film uses five different languages.

Drive My Car is a slow burn and a moving one, a beautiful meditation on grief and loss. I’m terrified that a romantic relationship will develop between the director and his driver, and am relieved that it doesn’t (but feel like it would in an American version of the movie). Hidetoshi Nishijima and Toko Miura deserved acting nominations.

Oh yes, there’s another plot point of a child dying. Just what I needed. I’m going to bookmark doesthedogdie.com on every browser, even Edge, in case I ever use it.

DUNE

We watch this over two nights after the baby goes to bed. This film more than any other on the list suffers from not being able to see it in the theater. The sandworm effect – I’m sure it was fantastic on an IMAX screen. Here, it’s…well, it happened. 

I’m impressed with the film’s worldbuilding but the character development is thin and I can’t be pressed to care much about any of them, even Oscar Isaac. That said, I’m intrigued enough by the ending to be interested in watching part two. The score indicates that Timothee Chalamet may be a messiah-like figure in this strange world, but his role isn’t necessarily a good thing, for him or the people around him. 

THE WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD 

How appropriate that the last “Oscar movie while breastfeeding” movie on my list has a scene where the main character breastfeeds. Yes, it’s all part of a magic mushrooms-induced fantasy, but still. 

I relate to the directionless Julie a little too much as I think about the projects I’ve started and stopped over the years. Her directionless nature is one reason she doesn’t want to bring a child into the world, and also one reason she considers keeping the baby when she accidentally becomes pregnant – so she can see something through. But she’s relieved when she miscarries. 

I still feel directionless sometimes. I question the choices I’ve made, am making, and will make in the future regarding career and education. One thing I don’t question is my daughter. Bringing her into this world has given me a sense of clarity I never felt before. I know that everything I do – we do – now will be informed by raising her and giving her the best life we can. 

Being her mother is not my everything. It is not the only role I want for my life. But it is a role that I cherish and love, and it helps carry me through all my other uncertainties. 

Julie felt differently. Unlike her second boyfriend, she does not change her mind about not wanting children. Good for her.

If I had a ballot:
Best Picture: 1) The Power of the Dog  2) Drive My Car  3) West Side Story  4) CODA  5) Belfast  6) King Richard  7) Nightmare Alley  8) Dune  9) Don’t Look Up  10) Licorice Pizza

Best Director: Jane Campion, The Power of the Dog
Best Actor: Denzel Washington, The Tragedy of Macbeth

Best Actress: Penelope Cruz, Parallel Mothers
Best Supporting Actor: Troy Kotsur, CODA
Best Supporting Actress: Ariana Debose, West Side Story
Best Original Screenplay: The Worst Person in the World
Best Adapted Screenplay: Drive My Car 

The baby’s rankings:
How should I know, she’s four months old.

Once upon a time, I was a big fan of this show. Reruns of South Park and the first season of Scrubs got me through my first year of college. Finding two other shows with such stark tonal differences would be a challenge, but they both offered me a strange sense of comfort during a difficult and confusing year. JD, Elliot, and Turk struggled as first-year interns in a way that reflected my own struggles as a college freshman, and I related to their various pains and heartbreaks. The show often had a sad, reflective tone, which made its overall optimistic and hopeful outlook feel earned and grounded in reality.

South Park was for my pessimistic moods, when I couldn’t stop thinking about all the bad things happening in the world and felt hopeless for humanity. South Park was cynicism, even nihilism, in cartoon form, and watching it confirmed all my negative feelings. “Everything sucks and people are hypocrites,” the show seemed to say, “so why not laugh about it?”

And I did laugh. I laughed when the show took human failings and brought them to their most extreme conclusions (Cartman creates a hate group inspired by Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ). I laughed when the show directed scathing commentary against institutions that deserved it (Father Maxi turns out to be the only Roman Catholic priest in the world who’s not abusing children). I laughed whenever the show refused to sanitize childhood and was honest about the fact that kids can sometimes be mean and self-interested. I thought Trey Parker and Matt Stone were brilliant and continued to think so for years, even writing a piece years ago on this very site about what I saw as their comic prowess.

And, once in a while, the show appeared to have a soul. It was sympathetic to Britney Spears during her mental breakdown while other media delighted in her pain. It had us feel for Wendy when she Photoshopped her portrait, succumbing to unrealistic beauty standards for women and girls. It realized that Butters was their best character, stopped treating him like a punching bag in every episode, and let him get a win sometimes.

Above all, I loved their indictment of hypocrites.

I don’t remember exactly when I became aware that Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s underlying philosophy is that everyone’s a hypocrite, and people are only pretending to care about larger issues to make themselves feel good. I know it was a gradual awareness that happened around the same time I started to understand that “ironic” sexism and racism was just plain sexism and racism.

When I became more interested in media analysis, I started paying closer attention to the people Parker and Stone targeted in their comedy. The targets weren’t just the powerful and corrupt. They attacked transgender people – and even though they walked back some of their commentary several seasons letter, they doubled down on their ignorance in a recent episode that J.K. Rowling probably plays on repeat. They made entire episodes around shaming famous women they deemed unacceptable (such as Sarah Jessica Parker, Hillary Clinton, and Paris Hilton).

But even these hateful moments didn’t have the kind of lasting negative impact as the show’s most consistent message: caring about things is stupid and both sides are just as bad. People who don’t care about the environment are no worse than the people who are smug over caring about the environment. And, yeah, okay, we were wrong about climate change and we’re sorry about that, but we might have taken it seriously years ago if Al Gore hadn’t been so obnoxious.

Then I heard the show was having a “pandemic special.”

In spite of myself, my curiosity was piqued. Could a show long past its prime find new relevance in an unprecedented situation? Would they somehow manage to both-sides a pandemic?

So I watched with a question in mind: Does this show have anything new to say, yes or no?

And wouldn’t you know? I can see both sides.

“The Pandemic Special” was not kind to the police as individuals or an institution. The cops were all too eager to get their hands back on military-grade weapons. They shot the only Black student in the fourth-grade classroom when two white kids were fighting. They shot and killed a kid playing in the snow who didn’t “stand down.”

But the portrayal of police violence didn’t come across as a searing indictment of a corrupt institution. It felt like a series of moments for stoners to laugh and say, “Man, that’s fucked up,” move on, and not think about it again. You’re encouraged to see the cops as hypocrites but not spare a thought for the people they harmed. We don’t even see Token again after cops shoot him. He’s not allowed a reaction to his traumatic experience.

Why is that important in such an over-the-top episode? Because they do allow emotional moments for Stan, Butters, and even Cartman. Unsurprisingly, those moments are the best parts of the episode. Cartman’s musical theater number about the joys of social distancing for a misanthrope is perfectly in character for him. Butters’ rant about his delayed trip to Build-a-Bear is funny, endearing, and sad all at once. And we get to see Stan, frequently the voice of reason in a world of chaos, have an emotional breakdown over the never-ending bleakness of a life under quarantine.

I have mixed thoughts about the Trump satire in the form of Mr. Garrison. Garrison’s blatant admission that he doesn’t care how many people die of COVID-19, that he actively wants the pandemic to continue, is an accurate portrayal of the president’s malice. Yet there’s still something lacking from the joke. Part of that isn’t South Park’s fault; Trump is so over-the-top that he makes cartoon villains seem subtle in comparison. But the focus on his narcissism and hatred feels like too little, too late from the people responsible for “Douche vs. Turd.”

“The Pandemic Special” refers to Randy Marsh’s discounted weed from Tegridy Farms, and he and other characters debate whether this sale is something we need right now. The meta-commentary, of course, is whether or not we need episodes like “The Pandemic Special.” Is it helpful for our entertainment to focus on the pandemic and find humor in a dark situation? Or are we better off going to entertainment for distraction and getting a break from all this sadness?

The choice is personal. I’ve opted for distraction in the form of Schitt’s Creek and What We Do in the Shadows. The first is a hopeful and optimistic show that’s sweet without being saccharine; it’s like a hug in TV form. The second is pure absurdity with no other agenda than to be ridiculous and funny.

But there’s a place for the kind of comedy that addresses the pandemic head-on. There’s value in experiencing catharsis through laughter. Maybe I will seek forms of comedy that vent our collective frustrations with this world.

I don’t think that form of comedy will be South Park.

1. Denial

No. No. NO. A THOUSAND TIMES NO. MAN FALLING OFF CLIFF GOING “NOOOOOOOOO!”

Not now. Not her. Not after everything else that’s happened this year. Not with COVID, the country being on fire, and the wide range of indignities and suffering we’ve had to contend with Every. Damn. Day.

She’s fought cancer before and won. She got knocked down, she got up again, and she never let it keep her down. It was almost a joke. “Ruth Bader Ginsburg goes to hospital because of signs of cancer…and Leo and Virgo and Gemini! SIKE! BEAT YOU AGAIN!” She beat it back so many times that it would never kill her. She was going to last for years. Betty White’s ten years older and she’s still kicking around!

This is an extended prank. She’ll pop up out of hiding in a few days and go “GINSBURRRRRRN!” She really said that, right? It wasn’t a Kate McKinnon joke? Come on. She has more lives than Mario. She can bop her head against a brick and collect more coins.

2. Anger

All you had to do was vote for Hillary Clinton.

You KNEW the Supreme Court was on the ballot. You KNEW Ruth Bader Ginsburg was in her mid-eighties (and that Stephen Breyer is in his late seventies – has anyone checked in on him lately? Assigned him a 24-hour doctor and defibrillator just in case?) All you had to do was fill in the bubble next to her name.

But you were too good to vote for Hillary Clinton because you were saving yourself for your one true love Bernie Sanders, and when he didn’t win you drunk-dialed Jill Stein and she texted back “New phone, who dis?”

Some of you same purity progressives make fun of fundamentalist Christians for their “stupid” support of Trump. Newsflash: they’re not stupid. They’re calculating. They know Trump will give them the anti-choice judges they want, and they vote accordingly.

They know how politics work. You don’t. Congratulations on being less astute than the anti-intellectual, religion-before-science voting bloc.  

Also, those of you saving your anger for Ruth Bader Ginsburg for not retiring earlier and being clairvoyant can go dunk your heads in the toilet.  

3. Bargaining

Okay. There are 41 days until the election. There are some potentially swayable Republican Senators who might not want to risk their reelection chances on rushing on replacing RBG with a conservative justice.

If Murkowski is a no on voting before the election, if Romney’s “yes” on allowing a vote doesn’t necessarily mean a “yes” on confirming the actual nominee, if Susan Collins’ Concern Level is at a level of Very, and the pH of water is 7, and two trains are leaving from different cities at the same time but one is travelling at 55 mph and the other is travelling at 65 mph, and the one at 55 mph is a runaway trolley heading towards five people tied to the track and you can let it run them over or pull the lever and have it go on the side track to run over one person, can pregnant people still have rights over their own bodies?

4. Depression

Break out the vodka. Break out the ice cream. Pour the vodka over the ice cream and sob into the world’s saddest smoothie bowl.

This is it, isn’t it? This is the final proof we needed that the Fates are against us and have used their magic to transform 2020 from an arbitrary marker of time into a malevolent physical force of nature that wants to destroy us all.

We were all Mr. Burns in “Homer at the Bat,” laughing at the idea of misfortunes befalling NINE ringers of his softball team, only to have eight of those nine ringers end up in deep trouble. We might as well brace ourselves for the possibility of Sonia Sotomayor being sucked into a vortex, or Elana Kagan somehow get terminally ill from a stubbed toe. Yes, people can die from stubbed toes now. It’s 2020. The normal rules no longer apply.

5. Acceptance

Acceptance. That peaceful moment when you come to terms with things you cannot change.

I’ll let you know when I reach it.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death is a stab in the gut and the wound is still bleeding. Every day, I fear another development that might overturn or undermine this brilliant woman’s legacy. I run through the first four stages of grief several times. I pause and grieve the fact that we can’t just grieve, that we can’t honor her with a toast and celebration of our life without worrying what’s going to happen to us without her.

An 87-year-old woman dying after a long, fulfilling, accomplished life should not be a tragedy. Not compared to the number of preventable deaths from COVID-19, the wildfires and hurricanes wreaking havoc across our land and sea, the unrelenting abuse of immigrants at the border, and the police murders of George Floyd and so many other Black people. Even now, hours after I started writing this piece, a Kentucky grand jury indicted the officer who killed Breonna Taylor for endangering Taylor’s neighbors, in what feels like a deliberate slap in the face to her memory, her family, all Black Americans, and the very concept of justice.

No, Ginsburg’s death in of itself is not comparable to those tragedies. But after years of watching autocrats rise to power in the United States and beyond, her grit and determination and presence on the court reminded us that we had some powerful people who cared about us.

When the world is overrun with villains, we can’t afford to lose one of the good guys.

So what do we do now?

I want to say something about living by RBG’s example and carrying on her good work. I want to say something inspiring about the smallest actions having the power to make the world a better place.

I want to take a tired old platitude and make it feel real.

It doesn’t feel real right now.

But maybe it will tomorrow.

Writing. It’s my favorite thing to do and I hate it.

I don’t think there’s anything that makes me feel more complete than finishing a piece that I’m really proud of. But how often do I feel proud of something? How often do I finish something?

I’m not even fully concentrating right now. I’m searching through my iTunes library for the perfect classical music to listen to while I work, pretending I’m going to pick anything other than Bach. I’m trying to find the perfect position for my back in this desk chair. I’m feeling the breeze of the perfect weather through my window and wishing I were outside, hating the pandemic for forcing me into a situation where I have to actively seek Outside Time.

Outside Time used to come naturally in my day-to-day life. I experienced it en route to and from work, walking to the train instead of taking the bus to enjoy that extra dose of Vitamin D. Now I have to plan for it. I need to set aside time to go outdoors and…do what, exactly? Sit and read? Go for a walk? Treat it as a leisure activity and do nothing productive with it? What right have I to exist without producing something?

I could write a piece about that: the pressure to feel productive even when we feel like the world is ending.  Some online publications might be interested in the topic. Stick “the pandemic” or “COVID-19” at the end of any pitch and an editor might read it.

But that means I have to find a place to pitch it, write a pitch, figure out what my audience is, figure out how to style the piece – is it an essay? A humor piece? A rant? A screed? A plea? And I’ll have to write it and rewrite it until the idea is no longer enjoyable for me and I’ve come to hate my own creation…and, by extension, myself.

Is this the life I want to live? Do I want to put myself through these cycles of insecurity? Haven’t I suffered enough with my mental health issues? Haven’t I earned the right to put down my pen? (A metaphorical pen. I mostly type.)

But if I go a few days without writing, I feel empty.

There’s nothing that brings me more satisfaction than finding the right words to convey my idea, my characters, my deepest desires. I can scroll through my blog and find posts from ten years ago that make me cringe, where I tried too hard to be funny, too hard to ape the style of other bloggers as I struggled to find my voice. But I can also find pieces that hold up well. I can find reviews and essays and satirical pieces that are well-expressed, or moving, or funny, or sometimes all of the above.

I try to remember that all writers feel this way. No one is proud of their work all the time. No one should be proud of their work all the time. We all make mistakes and good final drafts don’t happen without shitty first drafts.

I’d wager that most writers are unsatisfied with their work most of the time.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Writers’ workshops should be recovering writer support groups. “Hi, I’m Theresa.” “Hi, Theresa.” “It’s been twenty days since I last jotted down an idea in my notebook.”

That could be a piece in of itself. But then I have to find where to pitch it, write the pitch, find the right style, and I’ll have to write it and rewrite it until the idea is no longer enjoyable for me and I’ve come to hate my own creation…and by extension, myself.

Why do I put myself through this?

And yet, even as I’m questioning myself and lamenting this, I’m googling the search term “productive pandemic” to see who else has written about the internalized pressure to achieve creative peaks while hundreds and thousands of people around the world are dying.

I’m even wondering if this piece, this unedited rambling of my disordered mind, can be a piece I pitch somewhere, or post on my blog.

Because when I look back at the above paragraphs…for a first draft, it’s not bad.

(Okay, that’s a half-truth. This is the second draft. Most of the words are the same, but the “Outside Time” reflection is new. In the first draft, I went on a different tangent and wrote a different idea. I changed it for this draft because I might want to pitch that other idea, and I don’t want to give the game away in this piece.)

Anyway. These paragraphs I’m writing now, this half-stream-of-consciousness, half-confession, isn’t bad. If I share this, I can connect with other writers feeling the same way.

But then I have to find where to pitch it, write the pitch, find the right style, and I’ll have to write it and rewrite it until the idea is no longer enjoyable for me and I’ve come to hate my own creation…and by extension, myself.

Vicious cycle, rinse, repeat.

Always repeat, because I will keep going.

I may stop for awhile. I may bury my head in the latest book I’ve borrowed from the library, written by my favorite author, Better Than-Me, and ignore the calls from my characters to return to them and tell their stories. I may turn my phone on silent or block them for a few days, a week, a month…but I will always come back.

Does this sound hopeful? Does this sound like determination? Right now, it feels like grim acceptance of a Sisyphean fate.

I can’t NOT write, even if no one reads my work but me.

But if I can cut down on my periods of inner torment, shut out the self-doubt, hush the well-meaning soldiers in my mind that encourage me to quit so I don’t put myself through pain…

If I can spend more time writing than feeling bad about not writing, or not writing well enough…that would be great. That would be swell. That would be…

Oh, spite. Oh, hell. I can’t find the perfect sentence to end this piece and that’s going to bother me for the rest of the week.

When you follow a story for a long period of time, it can be difficult to separate expectations from reality. Game of Thrones is a story with over twenty years of buildup if the books are taken into consideration, and almost a decade of buildup for the fans who only watched the show. With so many characters and storylines that fell by the wayside, there was no way for the showrunners to deliver a conclusion that would satisfy all or most of the audience.

A perfect ending was impossible. A strong ending was still within reach if the showrunners stayed true to the characters and followed the rules established in the fictional world. Going into the last season of Game of Thrones, I prepared myself for the probability of a conclusion that would honor the story it had followed, regardless of whether or not it was my preferred ending.

Instead, we got a penultimate episode that destroyed years’ worth of credibility and made me nostalgic for the How I Met Your Mother finale, all because the showrunners forced an unearned heel turn for one of the show’s most beloved characters.

Daenerys Targaryen is a messianic leader with delusions of grandeur who feels entitled to the Iron Throne because of her family’s legacy. Thanks to the stories she’s heard from Viserys in her childhood, she expects Westeros to roll out the welcome carpet the second she arrives at King’s Landing. She’s ruthless, does not forgive easily, and calls on her dragons to burn her enemies to a crisp when they betray her. She doesn’t blink when Drogo puts a crown of molten gold on her brother’s head, doesn’t flinch when she locks Xaro Xhoan Daxos and Doreah in a vault to starve to death, and serves swift justice to the slaveowners in the cities of Essos. Her advisers often have to talk her out of administering brutal punishment.

Daenerys is also a principled leader who abhors and abolishes slavery in a world where many people, including her closest advisers, see it as a necessary evil. When merchants nail their slaves to crosses, taunting her with their dead bodies, she forces herself to look into the face of every human sacrificed on her behalf so she never forgets them. She makes the Ironborn promise to end their pillaging and raping before she accepts them as allies. Her tendencies lean towards brutal punishment, but she often listens to her advisers and moderates her decisions based on their guidance.

“Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin into the air and the world holds its breath,” goes the old saying in the Seven Kingdoms. Targaryens are either gentle and kind (Rhaegar) or cruel and insane (Aerys). Daenerys was compelling because she didn’t fall neatly into either category. Her capacity for cruelty and kindness, for selfishness and selflessness, were equal. She gave into her destructive tendencies as often as she pulled back from them.

The most recent episode, “The Bells,” made the final decision on Daenerys’s coin toss. She was another evil Targaryen, the Mad Queen father’s daughter that Tyrion and Varys had learned to fear. She abandoned her principles and murdered thousands of innocent citizens even after receiving an unconditional surrender from the city she invaded, brought to the brink of insanity after losing several loved ones in a very short period of time.

On some level, this action makes sense. George R.R. Martin has made it clear that he’s no monarchist, and the books support his thesis that there’s no such thing as a “good” ruler. Anyone who wants the power of an uncontested monarch will eventually be corrupted by that power even if their original intentions were as pure as snow, especially if they prioritize their personal ambitions over the common good, or have lost their closest ties to humanity in the people they loved most.

The glaring flaw in Daenerys’s arc is that she lost the people she loved because she temporarily put her personal ambitions on hold for the common good.

Dany, like most other characters on the show, was a climate change White Walker skeptic in the seventh season. She wasn’t willing to sacrifice any of her people or resources to fight a problem she didn’t believe existed. Even when she started to understand that the White Walkers posed a real threat, she refused to help until Jon Snow bent the knee.

This changed when Jon traveled to fight the White Walkers (in a very ill-conceived plan that only worked because the writers said it had to). When she realized the true threat of the danger, she took her dragons and rode to save Jon and the other fighters in his mission.

In the process, she lost a dragon. Her heart was broken; her dragons were the children she would never have. Despite her grief, she changed her plans, decided to postpone her fight with Cersei, and instead teamed up with Jon to fight the common enemy in the White Walkers.

This led to a chain of events where the White Walkers were defeated, but Daenerys lost a second dragon, her closest adviser Jorah Mormont, and her closest friend Missandei, none of which would have happened if she had stuck to her original plan of fighting Cersei directly.

In short, Daenerys was punished and turned into a villain because she did what heroes do – temporarily prioritized the greater good before her own ambitions. If she had ignored Jon and flown directly to King’s Landing with all three dragons, she could have roasted Cersei to a crisp without touching the common people, and then flown back in time to help in the Battle of Winterfell.

After all, time and continuity don’t follow the many rules in Game of Thrones. Trips that once took months take five minutes, dragons are foiled by a scorpion bow in one episode and indestructible in the next, and the White Walkers are the most existential threat to all humankind but can be wiped out completely with one well-timed stab from Arya Stark.

And Daenerys can roast innocent people after losing her loved ones, even though she lost her loved ones by trying to help innocent people.

Some fans think this criticism is unfair and like to quote Ramsay Bolton: “If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention.” But most fans upset with this direction weren’t expecting a happily ever after. We only wanted the story to make sense.

There was enough groundwork in A Song of Ice and Fire to eventually turn Daenerys into a tyrant if that’s the story George R.R. Martin wanted to tell. I could see Daenerys ascend the Iron Throne with the intention of being a fair and wise ruler, only to eventually become corrupted with power and turn into the same tyrant she had always criticized. Heck, I would have welcomed an even more pessimistic ending where the White Walkers won and destroyed all life on the planet as a chilling message about human pettiness and arrogance.

Instead, we got a conclusion for Daenerys that seems like a culmination of mixed messages. It was wrong of her to use Mirri Maz Duur to cheat Drogo’s death and save his life (even though it was okay for the Night’s Watch to resurrect Jon Snow). It was wrong of her to roast the Tarlys (because Tyrion and Varys are shocked, SHOCKED, that the dragon queen they chose to follow would…use her dragons). It was wrong of her to distrust Tyrion (even though Tyrion proved himself untrustworthy many times).

Come to think of it, the dragon queen’s arc is perfect in its way. Crushed under impossible-to-reach standards, doomed no matter what choice she makes, is a perfect metaphor for being a woman with power in this world.