paywall

joined 2 weeks ago
MODERATOR OF
 

Black cool is one of America’s great innovations, right up there with basketball, blue jeans, and the internet. It blends several forms—music, sports, fashion, speech, ways of cutting through space—into a wholly distinctive, globally influential aesthetic. There are French fashion houses in thrall to silhouettes first spotted in Harlem, Japanese men who have devoted their lives to spinning jazz records in Shibuya, and lavish murals of Tupac Shakur as far apart as Sydney and Sierra Leone.

Sean Combs, the disgraced record mogul, certainly did not invent Black cool. But like Miles Davis, Muhammad Ali, and Michael Jordan before him—and like Jay-Z, Kanye West, and many others who followed—for a flicker of time he was its most formidable ambassador.

That moment coincided with my adolescence, which is why the revelation of Combs’s extravagant cruelties—the depravity with which he used all that he’d gained—has left my childhood friends and me feeling so betrayed. We had looked up to Diddy, whom I will always think of as Puff Daddy or Puffy. When we were at our most impressionable, he taught us what to want and gave us a model for how to behave and succeed. Seeing him fall apart in our middle age feels like a kind of heartbreak. The verve and swagger he injected into our childhood dreams have curdled into something rancid.

[Read: The disturbing implications of the Diddy verdict]

Certain photographs of Puffy are permanently etched into my memory. In 1995, dipped in a flowing black-and-gold Versace Barocco silk chemise, liberally unbuttoned to flex a thick Cuban link anchored by a diamond-encrusted Jesus piece—the definitive signifier of inner-city affluence. September ’96, on the cover of Vibe magazine: head peering from behind his greatest protégé, the Notorious B.I.G.; signature blackout shades; a perfect S-curl relaxing the weft of his fade. The cool he exuded in these moments was inspirational, even masterful. My friends and I had never seen anything like it so fully pervade the culture, certainly not from someone we felt we could relate to.

I have not admired Combs for decades now, since well before his trial this year. But I will always be partial to the Puff Daddy of the ’90s: from 1993, when he founded his record label, Bad Boy Entertainment, through the spectacular rise and death of the Notorious B.I.G., and peaking around 1998 during hip-hop’s “shiny-suit era,” which he pioneered with Ma$e and the Lox.

By the time I got to college, Puffy was even wealthier, and my cultural references had begun to change. I vaguely remember the preposterous images of him strolling beneath a blazing Mediterranean sun while his valet spread a parasol over his head. He was mainly in the news because of a shooting at Club New York, which resulted in bribery and gun-possession charges against him and a highly publicized trial (he was acquitted). For my friends and me, his shocking newness had begun to fade.

Back in his prime, though, Puffy conveyed a sense of youthful ambition that we revered. He was able to transition from sidekick and hype man to dealmaker and multiplatinum performer. Before turning 25, he had founded his own culture-defining business—soon-to-be empire—and knew precisely how to leverage his growing fortune into social capital.

More than his success, we were struck by two qualities that seemed novel to us. The first was the amount of effort he openly displayed, which counterintuitively amplified his cool. Puffy made no pretense of obscuring the maniacal work required to achieve his goals. When he closed a million-dollar deal, he slammed the phone down and screamed. (Years later, he would become one of the original hustle-culture influencers on Twitter.) He showed us that flourishing was not a condition one had to be born into—that luxury and labor were connected.

The second quality was his ability to make Black people and Black culture—even its less compromising, more street-inflected iteration—feel at home in places, such as the Hamptons, that had not previously welcomed them. Puffy’s motto “I’ma make you love me” felt innocent and aspirational to us, not least because he actually achieved it. We were still many years away from realizing just what he would do with all the love he was given.

[Helen Lewis: The non-exoneration of Diddy]

Puff Daddy seemed to us then like a Black man utterly free in a moment of expanding opportunity. Before the age of social media, before we’d ever stepped on a plane, Puffy represented our first intimation of an unrestricted way of being-for-self in the world. On the one hand, he was the antidote to the soul-crushing squareness of upwardly mobile middle-class life that we so feared—degrees, office jobs, bills. On the other hand, he was perfectly assimilated into the good life of the American mainstream, to which we desperately craved access.

This made him dramatically unlike his peers. Tupac and Biggie were confrontational, and look where it got them. Rap entrepreneurs such as Master P and Brian “Baby” Williams were rich but ghettoized; any number of establishments wouldn’t seat them. Puffy, by contrast, looked like a marvelous solution to the problem of success and authenticity that my friends and I had been struggling to solve.

Yet we were suffering from a kind of myopia. And it wasn’t unique to us. The generation after us put their faith in Kanye West, whose most recent contribution to the culture is a single titled “Heil Hitler.” Role models are like seasons. One passes irretrievably into the next, but for a moment they might reveal possibilities that outlast and surpass them.

*Illustration Sources: Jeff Kravitz / FilmMagic, Inc / Getty; Nitro / Getty; Steve Eichner / Getty Images; Al Pereira / Getty Images / Michael Ochs Archives; Richard Corkery / NY Daily News Archive via Getty.


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

This month, the Ukrainian government made an unusual choice for its new prime minister. In a rare move for the country—and indeed for most of Eastern Europe—it picked a woman. Yulia Svyrydenko, a 39-year-old selected by President Volodymyr Zelensky and approved by Parliament, will lead the government in a period of intense uncertainty, as Russia escalates its offensive, Europe revamps its security commitments, and the Trump administration waffles on the war.

Some Ukrainian and Western observers have suggested that Svyrydenko isn’t up to the task, in part because they characterize her as a mere “loyalist” to Zelensky. She “would do everything saluting, without fail,” an anonymous source in Zelensky’s party told New Voice, a Ukrainian magazine. “I don’t believe she can reform our country,” Oleksiy Goncharenko, a member of Parliament, told me as he left a legislative session last week where he’d voted against her candidacy. “If she tries to criticize the president, she will end up like General Zaluzhny,” he continued, referring to Ukraine’s former army chief, whom Zelensky had dismissed after their differences became public.

The new prime minister is also facing overtly sexist criticism. “Svyrydenko is exactly the girl who all of you, dear students, are familiar with from school: She always sits at the front desk” and “carefully writes down the teacher’s notes,” Oleh Posternak, a Ukrainian political strategist, wrote in a Facebook post that a national media site republished.

Very few women have led former Soviet states, and they have virtually all received this kind of disparagement from men. In 2018, Georgia elected its first female president, Salome Zourabichvili, who’d run as an independent. Before she even took office, political observers called her a “finger puppet” of the billionaire leader of the ruling party, which had endorsed her. Today, many in Georgia credit Zourabichvili with uniting the opposition, and she condemned as “totally falsified” a recent election won by the party of her former patron.

In Moldova, many discounted Maia Sandu, who became the country’s first female president in 2020. Sandu’s rival in the race, the pro-Russian incumbent, Igor Dodon, criticized her for not having children—a line of attack that MAGA would later take up against Kamala Harris in the 2024 U.S. presidential race. In Dodon’s view, Sandu’s lack of offspring meant that she was “not interested in what is happening in the country.” Her opponents launched a misinformation campaign about her, much of which centered on the coronavirus pandemic. “The fake news scared people that I would close schools, hospitals, and even churches,” Sandu told me at the time. Instead, Sandu invested in the country’s medical and educational sectors, recruited European Union support for her agenda, and oversaw funding for the restoration of Orthodox churches. She has also been an effective reformer, working to root out the country’s extensive corruption.

[Anne Applebaum: The country that suffers whenever Russia schemes]

Svyrydenko has a chance to leave a similar legacy in Ukraine. She has ample experience working with foreign governments, whose support is now existentially important to Ukraine. Early in her career, she served as the country’s only permanent representative in China, bringing investment to her hometown of Chernihiv. As deputy prime minister, Svyrydenko negotiated billion-dollar reconstruction projects and trade agreements with the European Commission and Emirati leaders, as well as a $400 million investment from Turkish business interests. She also helped broker a natural-resources agreement with U.S. Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent to create a joint investment fund to rebuild Ukraine.

Her appointment last week was part of a larger government reshuffle by Zelensky, who reassigned the previous prime minister, Denys Shmyhal, to the role of defense minister. In her new role, Svyrydenko will be tasked with rehabilitating the economy, boosting the domestic production of weapons, and strengthening Ukraine’s armed forces, in part by securing financing from allies and the International Monetary Fund. One of her first actions as prime minister was to advance talks with the United States about a major potential investment in Ukraine’s drone industry.

Nevertheless, and despite her strong résumé, Svyrydenko will have to contend with broad reservations in Ukraine about female leadership. According to a 2020 study conducted by the research group Rating, Ukrainians are more likely to prefer male political executives. Sometimes bad actors take advantage of this trust gap. Katerina Sergatskova, the executive director of the 2402 Foundation, which supports and trains Ukrainian journalists, has seen many Ukrainian women in public life become the target of harassment. “It is political sexism. The attacks are well-organized campaigns,” Sergatskova told me. She has experienced such a campaign herself, which included death threats that forced her to stay out of Ukraine for a time.

Sergatskova noted that many in Ukraine are comparing Svyrydenko to the country’s first female prime minister, Yulia Tymoshenko, who took office in 2005 and faced several corruption charges. One case resulted in a criminal conviction against her and two and a half years in prison, which the U.S. condemned as politically motivated. After the 2014 revolution, which ousted Ukraine’s pro-Russian regime, the supreme court overruled Tymoshenko’s conviction and ordered her release. Nevertheless, a large majority of the Ukrainian public still don’t trust her.

Zelensky has fought against Ukraine’s abiding suspicion of female politicians by promoting a new generation of them into leadership positions. In addition to picking Svyrydenko as prime minister, he also announced the appointment of Olha Stefanishyna as Ukraine’s new special representative to the United States. The approach sets him apart from Vladimir Putin. Valentina Matviyenko, one of two women who serve on the Russian president’s permanent security council, put on a Barbie-pink suit last year and derided feminism as “an anti-male, anti-traditional-values movement.” Meanwhile, Russia bans and prosecutes feminist groups, and Putin tells Russian women to have “minimum two children.”

[Read: Putin’s deal with wife killers]

For those who fear that Svyrydenko will be no more than a Zelensky loyalist, she is already facing her first test. This week, Zelensky tightened the administration’s control over two independent agencies tasked with fighting government corruption. Sevgil Musayeva, the editor in chief of the newspaper Ukrainska Pravda, described the move as a step toward authoritarianism. “Svyrydenko has a chance to act now and speak against this decision that is undermining democracy, which our soldiers are dying for,” Musayeva told me. “But such action would require a lot of her courage.”

Two days after Zelensky reined in the government watchdogs, Svyrydenko met with G7 ambassadors in Kyiv to discuss anti-corruption policy—a subtle acknowledgment, perhaps, that the president had gone too far. But not everyone is convinced that Svyrydenko will be able to stand up to Zelensky. “Officially, we are a parliamentary-presidential republic,” Goncharenko, the legislator, told me last week. “I wish that were true. But we live in wartime; the decisions are made by the president.” Goncharenko isn’t holding out hope that Svyrdrydenko will be able to make her own choices: “If she contradicts his policy, he will simply fire her.”


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.

Earlier this summer, I spent one blissful week on vacation doing some of the best vacation things: lying in the sun with a book until my skin was slightly crisp, making full meals out of cheese and rosé. Of course, when I returned, I felt very, very sad. Real life is rarely as sunny and sparkly and juicy as vacation life. Right away, I found myself wishing that I could somehow preserve those delicious vacation morsels and store them in my cheeks like a chipmunk preparing for winter. Which is when I remembered something important: my own free will. What was stopping me from replicating the joy of vacation in my regular life?

So began my quest to do things differently. Call it “romanticizing my life,” if you want. Or call it self-care—actually, please don’t. But soon after returning from my trip, I was living more intentionally than I had before. I was searching for things to savor. I woke up early(ish) and started my day with a slow, luxurious stretch. In the evenings, rather than melting into the couch with the remote, I turned off my phone, made a lime-and-bitters mocktail, and read physical books—only fiction allowed. Less virtuously, I bought things: a towel that promised to cradle me in soft fibers, a new Sharpie gel pen, a funny little French plate that said Fromage in red cursive.

The effort was not a complete success. Replicating the exact feeling of holiday weightlessness is impossible; the demands of work and life always tend to interfere. But I did discover that these small changes were making my daily life, on average, a teensy bit happier. Someone once said that you should do something every day that scares you, and I’m sure those words  have galvanized many powerful people to action. But regular life is frightening enough. What if we sought out daily moments of joy instead?

I asked some of my colleagues how they create their own tiny moments of delight. Here are a few of their answers:

Staff writer Elizabeth Bruenig wakes up and starts working the group chats, sending a “Rise n’ grind” to her girlfriends and a “Goooooood morning lads” to her passel of politics-chat guys. “It’s like starting the day by going to a party with all my friends,” she told me. “Instantly puts me in a good mood.” On the flip side, Ellen Cushing is working on texting less and calling more. She now talks with her oldest friend, who lives far away, almost every weekday—sometimes for an hour, other times for five minutes. Their conversations, which aren’t scheduled, involve two simple rules: You pick up the call if you can, and you hang up whenever you need to.Senior editor Vann Newkirk tends to his many indoor plants: a fiddle-leaf fig, a proliferation of spider plants, a pothos, a monstera, a couple of peace lilies, some different calatheas, an African violet, a peperomia, and a ponytail palm. “Even on no-water days, I like to check on them,” he told me, and “write little notes about how they are growing or where they grow best.”For a while, Shane Harris, a staff writer on the Politics team, began each day by reading a poem from David Whyte’s Everything Is Waiting for You. The purpose “was to gently wake up my mind and my imagination, before I started writing,” he told me. “It’s such a better ritual than reading the news.”Staff writer Annie Lowrey decompresses her spine(!) at night, which, she told me, involves bending over to hang like a rag doll, or dead-hanging from a pull-up bar: “It’s the best.” She also journals every morning about the things that she’s thankful for, and prays in gratitude for achieving difficult feats. “Maybe you accepted a vulnerability and your ability to handle it? Maybe you realized you could celebrate someone else’s success rather than wishing it were your own?” she said. It’s annoying when the “obvious advice,” such as drinking more water and getting more sleep, is right, she said. But gratitude is, unsurprisingly, good for your mood and mental health.Isabel Fattal, my lovely editor for this newsletter, curates playlists for her morning and evening commutes—which are based less on genre or Spotify’s suggestions than on the kind of mood she’d like to be in at that point in the day. “When I was a college intern in New York, I once managed to go seven stops in the wrong direction on the subway because I was listening to the National (I had a lot of feelings in that era),” she told me. “I’ve since improved my spatial awareness, but I maintain that the right music can elevate any experience.”

If you have kids, you can include them in your happiness project, as many of my staff-writer friends do. Ross Andersen, for example, has enlisted his kids to make him a cappuccino every morning, which is genius and perhaps also a violation of child-labor laws. Clint Smith and his son spent a summer watching highlights from a different World Cup every day, which, he told me, was “a fun way to grow together in our joint fandom and also was a pretty fun geography lesson.” And McKay Coppins told me he loves his 2-year-old’s bedtime routine, which involves a monster-robot game, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, and a good-night prayer. “Bedtime can be notoriously stressful for parents of young kids—and it often is for me too!” McKay told me. “But I always end up looking forward to this little slice of my day.”

Related:

The quiet profundity of everyday aweWhat it would take to see the world completely differently

Today’s News

A shooting at a University of New Mexico dorm left one person dead and another wounded. Law enforcement is searching for the suspect.Office of Management and Budget Director Russell Vought criticized Federal Reserve Chair Jerome Powell over the “largesse” of the Fed’s headquarters renovations, just a day after President Donald Trump appeared to ease tensions during a visit to the Federal Reserve.The Trump administration will release $5.5 billion in frozen education funds to support teacher training and recruitment, English-language learners, and arts programs ahead of the new school year.

More From The Atlantic

Trump’s Ukraine policy deserves a reassessment.Food aid in Gaza has become a horror.Why is airplane Wi-Fi still so bad?

Evening Read

A colored photo of Tadej Pogačar cycling in front of a black-and-white photo of other cyclists Photo-illustration by The Atlantic. Sources: Edward Bottomley / Getty; Dario Belingheri / Getty.

Science Is Winning the Tour de France

By Matt Seaton

For fans of the Tour de France, the word extraterrestrial has a special resonance—and not a fun, Spielbergian one. In 1999 the French sports newspaper L’Équipe ran a photo of Lance Armstrong on its front page, accompanied by the headline “On Another Planet.” This was not, in fact, complimenting the American athlete for an out-of-this-world performance in cycling’s premier race, but was code for “he’s cheating.”

At that point, L’Équipe’s dog-whistling accusation of doping was based on mere rumor. More than a decade passed before the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency declared Armstrong guilty of doping. His remarkable streak of seven Tour wins was wiped from the record, but misgivings about extraterrestrial performances have never left the event.

Read the full article.

Culture Break

See. Check out these photos of the week from an animal shelter in Colombia, a mountain church service in Germany, a memorial to Ozzy Osbourne in England, the World Aquatics Championships in Singapore, and much more.

Examine. Hulk Hogan embodied the role of larger-than-life pro-wrestling hero with unwavering showmanship, even as controversy and complexity shadowed his legacy, Jeremy Gordon writes.

Play our daily crossword.

Rafaela Jinich contributed to this newsletter.

When you buy a book using a link in this newsletter, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic*.*


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

I was taking soup to the orphans, as usual, when a young man I’d never before met seized me by the arm. “Donald,” he said. “My name is Barack Obama, although that’s not important right now. In fact, you’ve already forgotten it. Before I matriculate at Harvard Law School, I must introduce you to someone who’s going to change your life.”

I looked at my watch. It was 1987.

“Who?” I asked.

“A man with whom you have nothing in common,” the mysterious figure went on. “Not one single thing. Not even enigmas. His name is Jeffrey.”

“Great!” I said. I loved to be introduced to people, in case they could help me with the orphans or connect me to a good sackcloth dealer. I was wearing a lot of sackcloth at that time, out of humility. I put down the biography of William McKinley that I had been reading in order to learn whether tariffs were good or bad. I had hoped that I could read it to the orphans, after we finished with the soup. But that could wait. “Please, introduce me.”

Thus began almost two decades of association that were nothing but miserable for me. I don’t know if you have any friends with whom you have nothing in common, but that was how it was with me and this guy. I assume! I never found out what he did, or how exactly he made his money, or even what his interests were. I would look at him and think, What a head of hair! “Even better than William McKinley’s!” I would mouth silently to myself. Then I would notice that, below the hair, his mouth was moving, and I’d try to guess what he had been saying, so that I could answer appropriately. Usually, I would just laugh and say, “You know that’s right!”

“You’re a pal,” Jeffrey would tell me. I wondered if I really was a pal. I spent so little time understanding what he had to say, and so much time lost in my own world, thinking about William McKinley and wondering what tariffs were. Tariffs—what a beautiful sound that word has. Tariff: the tip of the tongue taking a trip from the glorious Ta to the explosion of riff!

Again and again, my new friend would drag me to parties that I had no interest in attending. I was miserable. I sat in the front row at the Victoria’s Secret fashion show with my biography of William McKinley open on my lap. But it was hard to read in the dark room, and I was not getting to the part that explained what tariffs were as fast as I would have liked.

“I don’t want to go to another of Jeffrey’s island soirees,” I complained at one point. “I just want to stay in and read up about tariffs. I don’t feel that I understand them yet.” Everybody knows how much I love reading and how zealously I guard my reading time.

“No,” the mysterious man said. “It’s very important that you attend these parties. We need you in pictures. It’s for the conspiracy.”

I could tell the conspiracy was very important to him, so I always wound up going.

“Come on the plane,” Jeffrey said once. “It’s called the Lolita Express.”

“Sure,” I said. This was the most excited I had been in some time. I had no idea that Jeffrey also loved Nabokov. “I love a literary classic with an unreliable narrator.”

On the plane, I was disappointed. I searched it up and down for books to read but did not find any. Not even The Art of Translation!

“You should call your next plane the Ada, or Ardor: A Family-Chronicle Express,” I suggested. Jeffrey didn’t laugh. Now that I think back, I am beginning to doubt that Jeffrey had even read Lolita!

Jeffrey claims I met Melania on his plane, but I am certain I was with the orphans that week. Once I asked Melania about it.

“Have you ever been on that plane?” I asked. “Is that where we met? I don’t think that would have been how.”

She shrugged. “Could be. I do a lot of conspiracy things, what with all the body doubles. What do you remember?”

“I remember approaching you. I said, ‘I respect women too much to have any sense of what you look like physically, but there is something about your soul that makes me think of tariffs.’ And then you said, ‘Oh, no.’ And I said, ‘No, it’s good. Tariff is the most beautiful word in the English language.’”

“That does sound more like you,” she said.

Jeffrey kept inviting me to parties or, worse, urging me to throw parties of my own with themes that he suggested. I didn’t want to, but never told him so. That would have been impolite.

“I’m having a party,” I told Jeffrey once. “The theme is respect for women. I respect women so much that I feel bad even singling them out to say that I respect them, because really they’re just people. It’s a party about that, and I’d like you to be there.”

“That’s not a good theme,” he said. “Do a different theme instead.” So we did Jeffrey’s theme. I was very unhappy about it. We were the only two people there. I spent the whole party in the corner with my book about William McKinley, trying to get to the tariff part. I didn’t, though. It was too loud.

The mysterious man who introduced me to Jeffrey in the first place came back in roughly 2002. He had a book for Jeffrey that he wanted me to sign. “Do a picture,” he suggested.

“But,” I said, “I never write a picture.”

“It’s okay,” he said. He had an autopen with him. “I always carry this, for conspiracy reasons.” He used the pen to make a very obscene doodle and then pointed for me to sign my name to it. There was text above it.

“What does the text say?” I asked. “It doesn’t imply I share a creepy secret with this man, does it? I am beginning to think that he is not on the level, and I wouldn’t like to have it in writing that we had shared a creepy secret if, say, he were later revealed to be a terrible pedophile.”

“It says, ‘I love tariffs!’” the man said.

“Great,” I said. I signed it enthusiastically.

Over the years, the man kept coming to me and asking me to pose for pictures or make incriminating videotapes “for the files.” I should have asked more about the files, now that I think about it. “What are the files for?” I should have said. But he was clearly so passionate about them that I did not want to rain on his parade. When pressed, he said, “Conspiracies to do with the 2016 election,” or, “Conspiracies to do with the 2020 election,” or, “Conspiracies generally,” or, “Ask Dan Bongino.”

“We’re going to put all of this into files,” he explained. “Reams and reams of really damning stuff. And then we’re going to keep them secret. And you need to keep asking for them. Don’t take no for an answer.”

“This conspiracy confuses me,” I said. “You have spent decades painstakingly assembling this file, but you also will hide it from everyone, and I have to ask for it to be released?”

“Yes,” he said. “But then you have to stop asking for it to be released. Abruptly, and as suspiciously as you can. Indeed, if Congress shows any interest in having it released, have the speaker of the House shut them down for the summer.”

“But,” I said, “why would Congress listen to me?”

“He’ll listen,” the man said, and winked. “You’ll be the president, although many of the people who voted for you will be people who have felt for a long time that there is a secret conspiracy of elite pedophiles and that you are the one to help them blow it wide open. So they might not be happy when you start calling the files ‘boring.’”

“Why would they care so much?”

“The idea that there are secretly elite cabals of pedophiles wherever you look has been the stuff of conspiracy theories for years. Your supporters will be particularly interested in such things.” He paused. “But this time there’s an actual man preying on actual girls. That’ll be the horrible thing about this: a lurid conspiracy theory wrapped around real horrors that happened to real girls.” He got quiet for a moment.

I was thinking about something else. “You said I would be president,” I said, my voice hushed with wonder. “Can I do tariffs, as president? Like William McKinley did?”

He shrugged. “Sure, I guess. Is that really your only question about this?”

I nodded. “Tariffs are all I think about.” I halted for a moment. “And they’re—they’re a good idea, right? Tariffs?”

“Are they a good idea? Are they a good idea?” He laughed. “Why, you might as well ask if there is reason to cast doubt on the legitimacy of my birth certificate!”

I frowned. “Is there?” He didn’t answer. “Is there?”

But he had already vanished into the parking lot, clutching his precious files.


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

This was supposed to be the summer superhero movies became fun again. At first, that appeared to be true: Superman, released earlier this month, relaunched DC’s previously dour cinematic universe as a brighter and bouncier affair; the film zips from one encounter to the next with sincere aplomb. Now, two weeks later, comes Marvel’s The Fantastic Four: First Steps—which, coincidentally or not, seems similarly positioned as an injection of Technicolor fizz into a progressively more leaden franchise. Dispensing with continuity from previous installments, the film is set on a retro-futuristic version of Earth where everything looks as if it were designed by Eero Saarinen. As an effort to breathe new life into a particularly moribund title—there have been four prior takes on these characters, all of them badFirst Steps is essentially successful. What it somehow can’t manage to do is have much of a good time in the process.

First Steps, directed by Matt Shakman, has several things working in its favor. It’s quite handsome to look at, and features an elegant ensemble of actors who are capable of the big, dramatic moments thrown at them. Its action sequences also achieve a true sense of scale, something chintzier Marvel entries often struggle with. But First Steps zooms past the Fantastic Four’s origins and, more detrimentally, their odd family dynamic. Instead, it dives headfirst into a portentous, celestial story in which Earth’s apocalypse is almost immediately at hand. There’s no time for the characters to engage in era-appropriate diversions (such as, perhaps, kicking back with martinis) or match wits with colorfully costumed adversaries. This adventure is all end-of-the-world menace, all the time.

The lack of breathing room is striking. After all, these characters come from one of comic books’ richest texts: The Fantastic Fourare the original Marvel superhero team, created by the legendary writer-illustrator team of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby. The comic kicked off the company’s 1960s revival and redefined the medium for an entire generation. Mr. Fantastic, a.k.a. Reed Richards (here played by Pedro Pascal), is the irritable, busy father figure; he’s also a genius scientist who can stretch like rubber. (He mostly uses his power in this adaptation to fill many wide chalkboards with math equations.) His wife, Susan Storm, also known as the Invisible Woman (Vanessa Kirby), is able to vanish and throw force fields around everything; her brother, Johnny (Joseph Quinn), is the Human Torch, who can burst into flame and take to the skies. The trio’s best pal is Ben Grimm (Ebon Moss-Bachrach), a human turned orange, rocky beast known as the Thing.

[Read: Will there ever be a great Fantastic Four film?]

First Steps begins a few years after the foursome’s brush with a cosmic radiation storm, which transformed them into superhumans. The crew now keeps New York City safe from costumed villains and subterranean monsters, while enjoying their status as chummy celebrities; they’re cheered by teeming audiences holding pennants everywhere they go. Shakman whisks us past all of this information, perhaps assuming that viewers have picked up the gist from past cinematic efforts and wouldn’t want to sit through all that backstory again. (Maybe the director was also hell-bent on keeping the run time under two hours—an impulse I do approve of.)

But Shakman’s endeavor to pick up the pace means the movie loses its grasp of what makes the source material so special: the genuine, sometimes fraught chemistry of this found family. Johnny and Ben are usually depicted as bickering surrogate brothers, the hotheaded youngster and the curmudgeonly elder; Susan is a pragmatic force, with Reed often lost in his own world. In First Steps,however, the characters felt flattened out to me, while all four performances are muted and somewhat excessively grounded. An early scene sees Ben cooking tomato sauce with the group’s helper robot, H.E.R.B.I.E., crushing garlic gloves with his gigantic fists “to add a little bit of zip.” It’s a cute moment, but an oddly underplayed one; in scene after scene like this, I kept wondering—where’s the extra zip?

Instead of playful banter, First Steps serves up deep, emotional conversations about the meaning of parenthood and the heroes’ deepest fears. The plot kicks off with the reveal that after years of trying, Susan is pregnant, a joyful realization that, for Reed, quickly turns into worry that their child will also be superpowered. Soon after that, the Silver Surfer (Julia Garner)—a shiny interstellar being riding a big surfboard—appears, zooming from the clouds and proclaiming Earth’s doom. She heralds Galactus (Ralph Ineson), a skyscraper-size villain from space who cruises around the universe eating planets whole; his arrival immediately plunges the Fantastic Four into a crisis that they spend the rest of the film trying to untangle.

[Read: Marvel doesn’t have to try so hard]

The Galactus saga is the most famous in Fantastic Four lore, but it’s also a conflict the comic built up to in the 1960s, churning through sillier villains before introducing a more impassive, terrifying force. He’s a tough first challenge for this new on-screen team to take on, one that drives Reed into instant misery as he struggles to fathom how to confront an enemy who cannot be bargained with. Pascal is smart casting for the role—he has the right air of sophistication and maturity—but the script engulfs his character in such a dark crisis of confidence that the actor’s charisma can’t shine through.

The same goes for Kirby as the joyless Susan, who impressively handles all the steeliness required of her. Quinn, who charmed me in recent blockbusters such as A Quiet Place: Day One and Gladiator II, feels too tightly woundas Johnny. Moss-Bachrach does quite lovely work as Ben, but the movie is perhaps overly focused on the hardened fella’s softer side; it largely ignores the character’s more tormented feelings about his physical transformation. First Steps is also shockingly comfortable to go long stretches without big action; the centerpiece is a space mission with shades of Interstellar that is genuinely thrilling, but some members of the team (particularly Mr. Fantastic) get few chances to really show off their superpowers.

As surprisingly downbeat as it is, I appreciated the fundamental message of the film, which is set in a more hopeful world. When a crisis arises, Reed and company are actually capable of rallying the world to help save itself. Multiple times in First Steps, Shakman emphasizes the power of a global community, the kind he’s clearly longing for in our world. Those are the zippiest ingredients he tosses into the sauce; I just wish he’d allowed the heroes to loosen up.


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

Adolf Hitler’s first weeks as chancellor were filled with so many excesses and outrages—crushing states’ rights, curtailing civil liberties, intimidating opponents, rewriting election laws, raising tariffs—that it was easy to overlook one of his prime targets: the German central bank.

The Reichsbank president was a man named Hans Luther, a fiscal conservative who subscribed to the “golden rule” of banking, which stipulated that a country’s indebtedness should never exceed its obligations. In his adherence to protocol and policy, Luther could be “holier than the Pope,” according to Lutz Schwerin von Krosigk, who served as the German finance minister from 1932 to 1945.

On the afternoon of Monday, January 30, 1933, just hours after Hitler’s appointment as chancellor, Luther stood in Hitler’s office with a complaint. Nazi storm troopers, known as the SA, had forced their way into the Reichsbank building in central Berlin, despite what Luther described as “emphatic protests” by bank personnel, and hoisted a swastika flag over the bank.

“I pointed out to Hitler that the SA actions were against the law,” Luther recalled, “to which Hitler immediately answered that this was a revolution.” Luther informed Hitler in no uncertain terms that the Reichsbank was not part of his revolution. It was an independent fiscal entity with an international board of directors. If any flag were to be flying over the bank, it would be the national colors, not the banner of his political party. The next morning, the swastika flag was gone.

On Hitler’s first full day in office, rumors circulated that he wanted Luther gone. Alfred Kliefoth, the chargé d’affaires at the United States embassy in Berlin, dispatched a memorandum to the State Department: “I have been informed, in confidence, by Dr. Ritter, the Chief Economist in the Foreign Office, that the new Government intends to exert pressure on Dr. Luther to resign.”

Hitler’s rumored plans to oust the Reichsbank chief came amid a massive purge of the Weimar Republic’s civil service. Senior officials who had served for decades were fired. Hitler assigned his chief lieutenant, Hermann Göring, to clean house in Prussia, the largest of Germany’s 17 federated states. When Göring entered the Prussian government offices in central Berlin, he told Rudolf Diels, the head of the Prussian political police, “I want nothing to do with the scoundrels sitting here in this building.” When Diels tried to defend one senior colleague, Göring responded by firing the colleague on the spot.

[Timothy W. Ryback: How Hitler dismantled a democracy in 53 days]

A memorandum was circulated to all state civil servants demanding blind loyalty to the Hitler government. Anyone who did not feel they could support Hitler and his policies, Göring added, should do the “honorable” thing and resign. The Berliner Morgenpost observed that Hitler was clearly working to “transform the state bureaucracy from the most senior positions down to the administrative levels to align with his political positions.” In a speech on March 11, Göring compared the Nazi’s draconian measures to cutting wood: “When you chop, chips fly.”

Despite Hitler’s heavy-handed assault on the government bureaucracy,  he could not touch Hans Luther. According to a 1924 law, the Reichsbank was independent of the elected government; the Reichsbank president served at the discretion of a 14-member board, which included seven international bankers and economists. Even Reich President Paul von Hindenburg, the ultimate constitutional authority, possessed the power only to confirm the appointment of the Reichsbank president, not to dismiss him. The Reich president headed the state and commanded the military, and the Reich chancellor ran the government, but the Reichsbank controlled the currency and the economy.

Luther brandished his independence and power with confidence and control. He had already served as finance minister and had also done a stint as chancellor. He understood both politics and economics. In 1923, Luther had designed the rescue plan that saved Germany from the inflation crisis that saw Germans pushing wheelbarrows full of cash through the streets to buy a loaf of bread. After the global market crash of 1929, he had guided Germany back to employment stability and production growth by the spring of 1932. Great Britain emerged from the crisis with twice the national debt of Germany. France’s was fourfold. The New York Times reported that Luther had “stood like a rock” amid the global financial turmoil. The newspaper Vossische Zeitung described Luther as “equal to any storm.”

Finance Minister Krosigk attributed the Reichsbank president’s success in stabilizing the economy to Luther’s “intelligence, his clear-sightedness, his extraordinary work ethic, his common sense and his energy.” Luther was firm in his principles and policies, and he believed in meeting international obligations. But he was cautious with his pronouncements. As a central banker, Luther knew that a single word, or even a smirk or smile, could send markets tumbling.

On Wednesday, November 23, 1932, Luther had been invited to address a group of industrialists and businessmen in the city of Düsseldorf, in the country’s industrial heartland, along with the jurist and political philosopher Carl Schmitt. Schmitt was already renowned as the the most eloquent political theorist and advocate of authoritarianism in Germany. (Known as the “crown jurist of the Third Reich,” Schmitt would later supply legal justification for Hitler’s Night of the Long Knives, in 1934, and for the anti-Semitic Nürnberg Laws of 1935.) On that November Wednesday in 1932, Luther listened in dismay as Schmitt laid out his arguments for the “Hitler system” of authoritarian rule, which included ending representative government and parliamentary rule, as well as the eradication of political parties, press freedoms, due process, and rule of law in favor of “totale Diktatur.” Luther was appalled.

For the first and only time in his career as Reichsbank president, Luther took a public political stance. Speaking after Schmitt, he argued that a functioning economy required democratic structures and processes, and that industrialists and businessmen were duty bound to support constitutional democracy. “We all bear the responsibility,” Luther said, arguing that it was in everyone’s interest—financial, social, and political—to support the Weimar Republic’s constitutional democracy and the rule of law. “I believe that the private sector in particular has a tremendous interest in emphasizing the necessity of legal security across the board,” Luther said, “because legal stability is the foundation of all economic life.”

[Timothy W. Ryback: The oligarchs who came to regret supporting Hitler]

That same month, Luther cautioned Chancellor Franz von Papen against “experiments” with the recovering German economy. “I told Dr. Luther that if he was not prepared to accept the risks involved,” Papen later recalled, “the government would be obliged to disregard his advice.” Within a month, Papen was out as chancellor. Papen’s successor, Kurt von Schleicher, encountered similar resistance. When Schleicher informed his cabinet that his government would seek a 2.7 billion reichsmark credit line, he received a chastening reply, as recorded in the cabinet minutes: “The Reich Minister of Economics, who had also participated in the meeting with the President of the Reichsbank, declared that, based on all experiences in negotiations with the Reichsbank, further commitments would probably not be possible.” Schleicher’s government fell within the month. By the time Hitler assumed the chancellorship, Luther had already outlasted three chancellors, and there was reason to believe that Hitler could be the fourth. However much Hitler might want to remove Luther from his post, Vossische Zeitung reported, “existing legal frameworks make this hardly possible.”

But that still left extralegal frameworks. Luther knew all too well about these. Months earlier, on the evening of April 9, 1932, Luther had been shot by two assailants in the Potsdam Train Station in central Berlin. According to the court record, the attackers intended to “slightly wound” Luther—which they succeeded in doing—as a “protest” against currency policies they believed “were wrong and damaging to the German people.” Although the court said it could not rule on Luther’s currency policies, it did sentence the two assailants to 10 months in prison for their “choice of means” in expressing their policy objections.

Following the meeting about the swastika banner on his first day as chancellor, Hitler did not see Luther for six weeks. Instead, Hitler turned for economic guidance to Luther’s predecessor at the Reichsbank, Hjalmar Schacht. The former central banker had become a key Hitler ally in the financial world, seeking to rally bankers and industrialists behind the Nazi government. Kliefoth, the U.S. embassy chargé, dined with Schacht shortly after Hitler ascended to the chancellorship. “Schacht took pains to impress me with the fact that he is Hitler’s financial and economic adviser and that he is constantly in consultation with the new chancellor,” Kliefoth reported. Kliefoth further noted that Schacht had told him German industrialists were backing Hitler and his program. “I have good reason to believe, however, that this statement is an exaggeration,” Kliefoth reported in a subsequent memo to the State Department. “A leading executive official of the Reichsverband der Deutschen Industrie told me only this morning that the four-year plan announced by Hitler last night was an absurdity and that this organization viewed the latest political developments with skepticism and reserve.”

Only after national elections on March 5, when National Socialists secured 44 percent of the electorate and a mandate to move forward with a major rearmament program, did Hitler again summon Luther to the chancellery. Hitler admitted that he’d been compelled to meet with Luther because, given that the government was already running significant budget deficits, it would have been “completely impossible to begin the work of rearmament” without substantial funds from the Reichsbank. After spending two hours explaining to Luther the need for expanded military capacities, Hitler asked him how much financing the Reichsbank would be able to make available. In response, Luther assured Hitler that, as a “nationally minded man,” he appreciated Hitler’s intentions, and would be willing to provide 100 million reichsmarks—not even one-20th of the billions Hitler had requested. Hitler was stunned. He thought he had misheard, so he repeated his question. Luther gave the same answer. He later observed that, beyond the gross violation of Germany’s international debt obligations the chancellor was calling for, Hitler’s preparations for the “mass-murderous poison of war” were not in Luther’s medicine cabinet of remedies for the German economy.

Hitler informed President Hindenburg that he wanted Luther removed as head of the Reichsbank. Hindenburg reminded Hitler that the Reichsbank was an internationally governed institution and thus beyond the reach of German authority. So once again, Hitler summoned Luther to the Reich chancellery. At his first meeting with Hitler, back in January, Luther had been struck by Hitler’s apparent moderation. The chancellor was not the ranting, raging fanatic—“the abnormal man”—depicted in press accounts. Six weeks later, that moderation was gone.

Although it was becoming ever clearer to Luther that Hitler was going to make it impossible for him to carry out his fiduciary duties to the government, Luther used the occasion to remind Hitler of the Reichsbank’s independence and his own immunity from dismissal.

Hitler acknowledged that, as chancellor, he did not have the legal power to remove Luther as central banker. But, he told Luther bluntly, as the new “boss” of the country, he had access to considerable alternative sources of power that he would not hesitate to employ “ruthlessly” against Luther “if the interest of the state demanded it.” The nature of Hitler’s threats was unmistakable. Luther—who had already been shot once before in protest of his monetary policies—did not need to be warned again.

On March 16, Luther submitted his resignation to the Reichsbank board. In an extended letter to Hindenburg, Luther explained his reasons for stepping down. Luther reminded Hindenburg “that the leadership of the Reichsbank must be stable and independent of partisan political currents, that a change in political parties, directions, and majorities must not in itself result in a change in the leadership of the Reichsbank.” Luther also reminded Hindenburg that he had served as Reichsbank president alongside three previous governments. Nevertheless, Luther continued, it had become clear to him that the strained relationship between the Reichsbank and the current government was not sustainable and would only damage the country and its economy. But Luther insisted to Hindenburg that his resignation was contingent on the assurance that “an independent Reichsbank be preserved for the sake of the German state, its people and its economy.”

[Timothy W. Ryback: What the press got wrong about Hitler]

The Berliner Morgenpost, like many mainstream newspapers, lamented the departure of the man whose “strict fiscal policy” had twice rescued Germany from economic ruin. The New York Times observed that regulatory safeguards designed to secure the independence of the Reichsbank proved to be “wholly illusory” with the current administration. “Under the pressure of the kind in which the National Socialists are adept at applying,” the Times wrote, “even high government officials in Germany do not now try to retain their posts.”

Amid the turmoil of his wrangling with Luther, Hitler had summoned Hjalmar Schacht to the Reich chancellery, where he posed to Schacht the same question he had asked Luther: How much did Schacht think the Reichsbank could provide in helping finance the Hitler government’s plans? Schacht dodged the question. Giving a precise amount was impossible, Schacht said.

“You must be able to tell me to what degree the Reichsbank can or should provide assistance,” Hitler pressed.

“Herr Reich Chancellor,” Schacht said, “I really cannot give you a specific amount.” Too many factors existed when it came to a massive rearmament program. But Schacht assured Hitler of one thing: that the Reichsbank would provide Hitler with as much money as he needed. Hitler paused. He studied Schacht in silence, then asked, “Would you be willing to resume the leadership of the Reichsbank?”

Schacht assumed office the same day Luther departed.


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

“Wi-Fi is available on this flight,” the flight attendant announced on a recent trip I took from New York City to St. Louis. She recited her routine by rote, and Wi-Fi is among the details that now need to be conveyed, along with explaining how to use a seatbelt and enjoining passengers not to smoke e-cigarettes on board.

But when the time came to use the Wi-Fi, the service didn’t work. Eventually, enough people noticed this that the crew “rebooted” it, after which it still didn’t work. A new announcement acknowledged that Wi-Fi was, in fact, not available on this flight (and offered an apology). This was the can’t even access the portal kind of failure, but I’ve frequently encountered others, including can log in but not connect and so slow as to be worse than nothing. And then, at other times, the internet works great—as reliably as it does in an office building.

For two decades now, in-flight Wi-Fi has occupied this limbo between miracle and catastrophe. Way back in 2008, on Conan O’Brien’s late-night show, Louis C.K. told the story of a man who was complaining about the in-flight Wi-Fi not working mere moments after learning of its existence. “Everything is amazing right now and nobody’s happy,” the comedian joked. The bit was never quite right—nobody was happy, because services such as in-flight Wi-Fi were not yet amazing, actually. A chasm separated the service’s promise and its reality.

Today, 17 years later, I sense that same distance when I try to go online in the air. The matter feels more urgent now that more airlines, including JetBlue, Delta, and soon American and United, are offering free, purportedly better in-flight Wi-Fi (mainly to loyalty members so far). Air travel is neither a haven for offline delight nor a reliable place to carry out normal online life. Either option would be welcome, because each would be definitive. Instead, one is left to wonder if the hours about to be spent in flight can be filled with scrolling, shopping, Slacking, and tapping at Google Docs—or not.

I set out to learn why. Is the issue technological? Are the airlines promising more service than they can deliver? Most of all, I wanted to know if this situation will ever be fixed, making airplane Wi-Fi feel as brisk and reliable as it does elsewhere. The answer, it turns out, is familiar: soon, any day now, probably next year.

* * *

Because it’s the thing they use most often and turn on directly, people use Wi-Fi as a nickname for internet access in general. (“The Wi-Fi is down,” your spouse or child might say.) But the Wi-Fi part of airplane Wi-Fi—the access points in the plane that appear as “Delta Wi-Fi” or whatever on your computer or smartphone—is almost never part of the problem. Instead, the problem is the pipe to which the Wi-Fi connects—the in-flight equivalent of the cable or fiber that delivers internet service to your house.

An airplane flies in the air, and there are two ways to get the internet to connect to such a place: from above or below. At first, the only option was down. If you’re old enough to remember the September 11 attacks, you might also recall the Airfone service on some airlines—a phone handset stuffed into the seatback. These phones used air-to-ground communication, meaning that the signal was sent from the plane to a relay on the ground. Airfone (and its competitors) were expensive, didn’t work well, and few people used them. But that technology would be repurposed for early in-flight internet, offered via providers such as Gogo Inflight.

Jack Mandala, the CEO of Seamless Air Alliance, a standards organization for in-flight connectivity, told me that air-to-ground works like your cellphone—the bottom of the plane needs a view (metaphorically speaking) of base stations from the air. That’s why, for a time, you could use in-flight internet only over 10,000 feet. It’s also why the service is unreliable. Just like your cellphone might hit a dead spot, so can your airplane. Air-to-ground bandwidth was limited, meaning that the service would get worse as more people on a plane used it. And finally, air-to-ground service operates extremely slowly when it sends data down to the ground—this is why sending an email attachment or texting an image from a plane can take an eternity, before possibly failing completely.

Going up instead of down mostly solved these issues. Around the time of Louis C.K.’s Conan bit, airlines began offering internet service to planes via satellite communication. The improved speed and reliability allowed JetBlue to provide the industry’s first free in-flight internet to commercial passengers, in 2013. According to Mandala, satellite services are easier to scale as more planes adopt them and more passengers use them. Satellite also has the benefit of being usable over water, in bad weather, and on the ground.

The problem is that having viable technology is different from rolling it out seamlessly everywhere. Doing so requires investing in the equipment and service, and that requires time and money. In 2019, Delta, for instance, made a commitment to roll out free Wi-Fi across its entire fleet. Joseph Eddy, the airline’s director of cabin and in-flight entertainment and connectivity, told me that Delta’s effort is still ongoing. Unlike hotels or convention centers, Eddy reminded me, aircraft are highly regulated. Each type of aircraft needs to be configured differently, and a big airline such as Delta—or American, which told me it will also soon have 1,500 aircraft of its own with Wi-Fi service—requires some planning. “We need to make software upgrades. We need to make sure we have all the satellite coverage that we need to ensure that we have enough capacity and the experience is as good as possible,” Heather Garboden, American Airlines’ chief customer officer, told me.

But, hold up: American is the carrier I fly most these days, and I keep finding myself unable to use the internet. Garboden confirmed that American is still transitioning its regional jets to satellite service—many are still using air-to-ground. And that’s exactly the kind of plane I was on from New York. Delta’s Eddy told me that its regional jets and some short-haul planes, including the Boeing 717, are also still operating on air-to-ground service.

In both cases, the airlines made a deliberate choice to invest first in the routes and planes that carry the most passengers—big, mainline jets. That means that if you’re flying on a long flight across or between continents, or on an airline with fewer types of planes, such as JetBlue or Southwest, you might have a better shot at reliable internet. And if you’re on a small or regional jet, chances are greater that the Wi-Fi won’t work, or won’t work well. Eddy told me that Bombardier CRJ regional jets have proved more troubling to certify for the satellite antennas that sit on top of the fuselage, because of the aircraft’s rear-mounted engines. “You can’t allow any form of debris to fly off the antenna at all,” he said. If you board a plane and Wi-Fi isn’t available on the ground, that’s a sign that your aircraft is still using air-to-ground service. Good luck.

* * *

Beyond the technology itself, the expectation of always being connected is also driving flier perceptions of in-flight internet performance. Fliers are only now starting to take in-flight internet access as a given, rather than viewing it as a surcharged luxury.

Eddy thinks the tide started to turn during COVID. Even though people weren’t flying as much, everyone became more familiar with digital tools—Zoom, but also Slack, Teams, Google Docs—that might once have been lesser known. When travel resumed, those expectations made in-flight Wi-Fi “significantly more important,” Eddy said. American Airlines’ Garboden added that a younger, always-online generation is buying tickets now—26 percent of the airline’s customers are Gen Z and younger, she told me. For both airlines, the evolution of in-flight entertainment has reinforced the need for internet service. American delivers its movies and shows directly to its passengers’ devices; once those people are already staring at their phones, habit makes them expect to be able to switch to email or a social-media app. But Delta, which offers seatback screens on most of its planes, believes that having a television in front of you also now implies the need for internet. “If you look at the younger generations, they’re at home watching Netflix and they’re playing on their phone. They’re doing both almost constantly,” Eddy said, adding that 20 percent of Delta’s Wi-Fi customers use more than one device at a time.

Competition and passenger expectations may be the key to making in-flight internet work for good. After 9/11, the domestic airline industry devolved into pure carriage, stripping away all comforts in the name of safety—and profit. That appears to be changing. Nomadix, the company that invented the enter-your-name-and-room-number hotel internet service more than 25 years ago, told me that the quality of Wi-Fi is one of the top three factors in customer satisfaction at every hotel property. That’s because hotels are in the hospitality business, and catering to customer comfort (not to mention facilitating work for business travelers) is core to their success. Airlines haven’t been as concerned with making flyers content in the cabin, but both Delta and American admitted that in-flight internet service is transitioning from an amenity into part of the hard product. “You would expect that your seat is there, right? Wi-Fi has become that for us,” Eddy said. Almost overnight, he told me, Wi-Fi went from having no impact on people choosing Delta to being “more important than flight times and airports.”

For now, consistency is the missing ingredient. This is what Louis C.K. failed to grasp: The issue has never been the flying public’s unwillingness to marvel at the miracles of human invention, but rather, the fact that carriers appear to make promises and then fail to deliver on them. Now that customer expectations, technological feasibility, and airline investments all align, it should just be a matter of time before the air is as well connected as the ground. But how much time? Delta initially promised “fast, free Wi-Fi” across its global fleet by the end of 2024, but now the airline thinks reaching that milestone will take until the first half of 2026. Garboden said American is on track for early 2026. United also plans to offer free satellite Wi-Fi across its entire fleet, but offered no projected date for full rollout.

Like cabin safety or timely arrival, until every passenger on every flight feels confident that the internet will take off along with their bodies and their luggage, the service doesn’t really exist, because it can’t be relied upon. Internet in the air is both a concrete advancement that’s mature and widespread, and a conceptual one frequently deferred into the future. That future may come, and perhaps even soon. Or it might not. Just like the Wi-Fi on your next flight.


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

Behind the Blog: Don't Record Me, Bro

This is Behind the Blog, where we share our behind-the-scenes thoughts about how a few of our top stories of the week came together. This week, we discuss creeper glasses, Amazon comms, and a DIY 404 party.

SAM: Earlier this week, Chris Samra released this teaser video for Waves, smart glasses in the vein of Meta’s Raybans that he says “record in stealth.”

introducing Waves, camera glasses for creators.record in stealth. livestream all day.pre-order now. pic.twitter.com/mFyEiriAKx

— Chris Samra (@crsamra) July 23, 2025

You’ll have to watch the video for yourself and tell me what you think—and I’m sure Joe will do a  much smarter and more thorough writeup on these things, as he’s done about smart glasses in the past. But a few things immediately came to my mind when I watched this video. First: this looks like the 30 seconds of fun young carefree plot in the trailer for a horror movie before the power goes out and someone starts screaming. It’s shot and edited in such a nefarious style.


From 404 Media via this RSS feed

 

Women Dating Safety App 'Tea' Breached, Users' IDs Posted to 4chan

Users from 4chan claim to have discovered an exposed database hosted on Google’s mobile app development platform, Firebase, belonging to the newly popular women’s dating safety app Tea. Users say they are rifling through peoples’ personal data and selfies uploaded to the app, and then posting that data online, according to screenshots, 4chan posts, and code reviewed by 404 Media. In a statement to 404 Media, Tea confirmed the breach also impacted some direct messages but said that the data is from two years ago.

Tea, which claims to have more than 1.6 million users, reached the top of the App Store charts this week and has tens of thousands of reviews there. The app aims to provide a space for women to exchange information about men in order to stay safe, and verifies that new users are women by asking them to upload a selfie.

“Yes, if you sent Tea App your face and drivers license, they doxxed you publicly! No authentication, no nothing. It's a public bucket,” a post on 4chan providing details of the vulnerability reads. “DRIVERS LICENSES AND FACE PICS! GET THE FUCK IN HERE BEFORE THEY SHUT IT DOWN!”


From 404 Media via this RSS feed

 

This is an edition of the Books Briefing, our editors’ weekly guide to the best in books. Sign up for it here.

Many of my most memorable reading experiences are conflated with incongruous settings. I first picked up Slaughterhouse-Five in Venice, on the recommendation of a fellow backpacker. I read Death in Venice, however, in Amsterdam, where the canals thinly evoked Thomas Mann’s pestilent waterways. And if you ask me about San Sebastián, the lovely Basque seaside town, I’ll flash back to the mind-blowing middle section of Cloud Atlas, which is set in postapocalyptic Hawaii. For authors, too, a place can serve as more of a catalyst than a setting. They go somewhere on holiday and end up learning something about their characters—or themselves. This is what happened to John le Carré in Corfu, and it’s why, for this week’s installment of The Atlantic’s literary-travel series, “The Writer’s Way,” Honor Jones chose to investigate le Carré’s 600-page masterpiece, A Perfect Spy, by traveling to a place that takes up only a few pages in the novel.

First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic’s Books section:

Eight books that explain the university crisisThe most dangerous kind of friendshipThe one book everyone should read“Your Horses,” a poem by Jodie Hollander

“If you wanted to write about le Carré and travel, you could go almost anywhere,” Jones explains: “Vienna or Bern or Kenya or Cornwall would make the list long before Corfu.” But consider the predicament of le Carré’s protagonist, Magnus, an MI6 agent who has betrayed his country to the Communist Czechs and is lying low in Greece under cover of a family vacation. “If you’re trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found, you don’t go to the obvious places,” Jones writes. “You ignore the booked flight to Washington and the train ticket to Paris because you know they’re false leads. You look where the trail is colder.”

Le Carré himself had a chance encounter in Corfu that made its way into A Perfect Spy, in a scene that opens up a central theme of the novel—the legacy of a father (Magnus’s but also le Carré’s) who was a monstrous, charismatic narcissist. It was on the Greek island that le Carré ran into a man who’d worked for his father, a globe-trotting con artist. “We was all bent, son,” the former henchman told him. “But your dad was very, very bent.”

Because great novels are rarely on the nose, le Carré sets a fictionalized version of this encounter in England. Corfu instead becomes the place where Magnus’s Czech contact, the mysterious Axel, tries to entice the Brit to join him behind the Iron Curtain. The island, for centuries beset by repeated invasions and then an onslaught of tourism, holds broader thematic significance for Jones: “Corfu is a good place to think about influence and identity, about how so many disparate fragments can cohere into a whole.”

As it happens, I’m going to stop in Bern next week on a European rail vacation. The Swiss city takes up many more pages in A Perfect Spy than Corfu does; it’s where Magnus, as a very young man, first meets Axel. But I’ve already read the novel, so I’ll pack a different one. Inspired by The Atlantic’s new list of staffers’ recommendations for must-read books, I’m going to finally dig into Hernan Diaz’s Trust, which is set primarily in New York. So although I’ll be in Europe, I’ll probably be thinking of home.

Photo of a narrow street in Corfu’s Old Town, with laundry hanging from above. A narrow street in Corfu’s Old Town Alice Zoo for The Atlantic

Chasing le Carré in Corfu

By Honor Jones

If you’re trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found, you don’t go to the obvious places.

Read the full article.

What to Read

Ravelstein, by Saul Bellow

Bellow’s thinly veiled 2000 roman à clef about his friendship with the star academic Allan Bloom—the philosopher who wrote the best-selling jeremiad The Closing of the American Mind—is a tender portrait of its subject. But Bellow’s novel is as much about the institutional culture that shaped Bloom. It is a paean to academia as an enterprise that works to sort ideas that are base and quotidian from those that are noble and timeless, and its titular character embodies this faith in the professoriate as a kind of secular priesthood. Abe Ravelstein is a study in contradictions. Devoted to a life of the mind, he approaches reading the classics as a kind of soul-craft, and he’s preoccupied with the wisdom of ancient philosophers, poets, and statesmen; yet he also nurtures an irrepressible fondness for modern luxuries such as Armani suits, Cuban cigars, and “solid-gold Montblanc pens.” The irony of Ravelstein is that its protagonist’s celebrity is a symptom of the same commodification of knowledge that is eroding the things he most holds dear. Read 25 years later, the novel is an artifact of its time: The diminishment of the university’s purpose that Bellow witnessed feels much more advanced today.  — Tyler Austin Harper

From our list: Eight books that explain the university crisis

Out Next Week

📚 Flashout, by Alexis Soloski

📚 Kicking the Hornet’s Nest: U.S. Foreign Policy in the Middle East From Truman to Trump, by Daniel E. Zoughbie

📚 The Trembling Hand: Reflections of a Black Woman in the Romantic Archive, by Mathelinda Nabugodi

Your Weekend Read

A scene from "Eddington" A24

When It Feels Good to Root for a Bad Guy

By David Sims

The local sheriff in Eddington, Joe Cross (Joaquin Phoenix), is the film’s Bickle, though his final showdown is a far more absurd spectacle than the one in Taxi Driver. Aster’s film is frightening, yes—but it’s a dark and lacerating comedy first and foremost, playing out the power fantasies that fueled many an online conspiracy theory in the pandemic’s early days (and still do now). And although Cross may not be as crushingly lonely as Bickle, he does share the character’s escalating sense of paranoia. By plunging the viewer into this chaotic inner world, Aster illustrates the dissonant appeal of being enmeshed in the perspective of, and maybe even rooting for, an individual committed to their belief in justice—even if that commitment can border on sordid.

Read the full article.

When you buy a book using a link in this newsletter, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic*.*

Sign up for The Wonder Reader, a Saturday newsletter in which our editors recommend stories to spark your curiosity and fill you with delight.

Explore all of our newsletters.


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

The world of professional wrestling includes many types of characters: the tough guy; the masked acrobat; the silent killer; the undersize underdog; the wild man; the high-flying heartthrob; the sex god. Over the course of a pro-wrestling event, which may last a few hours and feature several matches, these roles work in tandem as a type of variety show, giving fans many flavors of entertainment. But over the past half century, the headlining star—the one whose name tops the marquee, and who is paid the most money—has usually been someone like Hulk Hogan. Hogan himself was uncommonly tall, blessed with biceps bigger than a baby’s head, a booming voice, dozens of repeatable catchphases, and a 1,000-watt personality that could be felt from the cheap seats. Both visually and in his affectations, he was what you might come up with if you were to ask 100 strangers on the street, or ChatGPT, to draw the prototypical “pro wrestler.”

Hogan, who died yesterday at the age of 71, is by many objective metrics the most famous pro wrestler of all time. Pro wrestling, as entertainment, has existed since at least the early 20th century. But in the 1980s, Hogan popularized a brash and cartoonish style that became swiftly synonymous with the form, at least in America. When the promoter Vince McMahon built up the company now known as World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE), which transformed the business by becoming the first to broadcast its wrestling show across the country, Hogan was his agent of change—a muscle-bound pitchman who sold a patriotic vision of strength, heroism, and integrity. (As his theme song went: “I am a real American / Fight for the rights of every man.”) Hogan’s superpower was his pure conviction; he embodied outlandishness without a trace of irony, imprinting himself onto the hearts and minds of millions of people, many of them children who would carry their adoration into adulthood.

Most pro-wrestling fans will freely admit that the entertainment is at least a little ridiculous. We’re talking about half-naked men and women in leather underwear and fake tans who pretend to fight one another, their beefs based on storylines as simplistic as I don’t like you. But the unbelievability is part of the point. Pro wrestling offers a digestible fantasy in which good guys usually triumph and villains get their comeuppance. The bad guys aren’t acquitted on technicalities or rewarded for their deviousness; they’re punched in the mouth, before a roaring crowd of thousands. When Hogan became wrestling’s brightest star, this was his essential promise—he was not just a do-gooder who said the right things about loving God and eating your vitamins; he also almost always won. He was like a one-man Harlem Globetrotters, a dazzling showman guaranteed to come out on top. He remained beloved even when he became a bad guy, in the 1990s, popularizing a new archetype of “cool scoundrel” that upended the entire business by making it unclear which side of the good-versus-evil conflict fans should root for. In his case, it was obvious: You rooted for Hulk Hogan.

This success brought millions of dollars, worldwide fame, acting roles, a few restaurants—even as Hogan himself remained something of a cipher. Today, WWE produces hours of behind-the-scenes documentary programming in which its wrestlers speak as themselves. But in that earlier era, when it was not yet publicly acknowledged that the entertainment was predetermined, men like Hogan were careful to stay in character, lest they be judged as phonies. The WWE admitted that the wrestling wasn’t “real” as far back as 1989, but still, Hogan never quite shed the role of  “Hulk Hogan”—never casually transitioned into being known by his birth name, Terry Bollea. Even his reality show, which purported to depict his everyday family life, was called Hogan Knows Best. (His ex-wife Linda; his son, Nick; and his daughter, Brooke, all adopted “Hogan” as their public surname, too.)

Hogan generally seemed to be living out some version of his wrestling identity. In a courtroom, he might admit that “Hogan” was a character he played for a living; still, he would say this while wearing his trademark bandanna and bleached-blond goatee. As the years went on and he spent more time out of the wrestling ring—his last match was in 2012, but he hadn’t been a regular performer since 2002—he extended the logic of his character into real life. When in 2013 he sued Gawker for publishing a tape that showed him having sex with his friend’s wife (with the friend’s consent), and eventually won a $140 million judgment, he dominated the court of public opinion by portraying the website as just his latest adversary to overcome. (That the behind-the-scenes circumstances of his lawsuit were more complicated didn’t matter much.) When audio of Hogan using wildly racist invective, from that same tape, was leaked in 2015, he was excommunicated from WWE—“It was unacceptable for me to have used that offensive language; there is no excuse for it; and I apologize for having done it,” he said in a statement—but negotiated a triumphant return to its programming just a few years later. He was sometimes down, but never out; he behaved as though the fans would always be there for him, and they usually were.

This ability to wave away the past and shamelessly present himself for renewed applause was an especially American trait. Like a carnival barker or a veteran televangelist, Hogan wielded his charisma as a cudgel against all criticism. The sordid, tasteless incidents never dinged him for long. Whatever happened then did not matter as much as what was happening now. If he could present as the Hulkster, his muscles rippling and his bandanna tightly strapped on, he could pretend to be the conquering hero even when the truth was more troublesome, more dreary, more human.

In pro wrestling, the ability to stay in character is highly valuable; in real life, it’s sort of obnoxious. (Try affecting the loudest version of your personality, all of the time, and see how many of your loved ones stick around.) But if your paying customers don’t care, there’s little downside to maintaining the illusion for as long as possible. Today, America is inundated with public figures who loudly insist they are one thing when they’re really something else, who stick around mostly because they refuse to go away. We are surrounded by Hulk Hogans, boisterous personalities who commit to their bit as they try to sell something and unabashedly ignore the truth.

Even by the standards of his wrestling peers, Hogan’s ability to stretch the truth was something else. And his belief in himself was rarely shaken; no matter the occasion, he could always snap into character and launch into a bravura monologue. Slowly, though, the covenant between Hogan and those paying customers began to crack. The racist tapes were a major blow, even after WWE brought him back; several Black wrestlers refused to accept his apology, calling him insincere. The ugliness of his remarks is still shocking to revisit today—for many fans, they will be his enduring legacy. And his public alliance with President Donald Trump, which included an absurd pro-wrestling-style speech at last year’s Republican National Convention (“I know tough guys but let me tell you something, brother, Donald Trump is the toughest of them all”), was just as polarizing.

When Hogan made his last WWE appearance earlier this year, on the Netflix debut of the company’s Monday Night Raw, he was resoundingly booed by the Los Angeles crowd. It was an ignoble final interaction with an audience he had helped create, though hardly surprising, given his recent reputation. Even so, he was willing to bet on being forgiven: This year he co-founded the wrestling company Real American Freestyle, whose first show is scheduled for August. Ticket sales were soft, and many pro-wrestling fans derided the concept; still, he was going for it one more time, committing to a character who was no longer believable to anyone but himself.


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

 

Today The Atlantic is announcing two new staff on the editorial team: Jake Lundberg, a staff writer who is The Atlantic’s first in-house historian and archivist; and Drew Goins as a senior editor. Jake joins The Atlantic from the University of Notre Dame, where he was a director of the undergraduate history program and an associate teaching professor since 2016. Drew comes from The Washington Post, where he was most recently the creator and writer of the Today’s Opinions newsletter and host of the Impromptu podcast. At The Atlantic, Drew will help think through strategies to develop and strengthen relationships with readers.

Below is editor in chief Jeffrey Goldberg’s note to staff announcing Jake Lundberg:

For the first time, The Atlantic will have an in-house historian and archivist. This dream job is being filled by a brilliant academic and writer named Jake Lundberg, who comes to us from the University of Notre Dame, where he has been director of the undergraduate history program and an associate teaching professor since 2016.

The creation of a special staff writer role for an Atlantic historian has been a goal of mine for many years. One reason this role took so long to fill is that we were inundated with interest, and we were forced to plough through an enormous number of candidates (though it would also be fair to say that Jake stood out as soon as he came to our attention).

A little background. A friend of mine, a former Pakistani ambassador to the U.S., says that America is the only place on Earth where the expression “That’s history” means, “That’s irrelevant.” He is, unfortunately, correct. We suffer as a nation and as a culture because we don’t know where we come from or how we got here. It’s extraordinarily important, particularly now, to fight against the forces of willed amnesia and pernicious propaganda, and ammunition for this fight can be found in The Atlantic’s 168-year-old archives.

Jake is a great person to unearth the riches of our history, and history generally, and to contextualize what he finds. He has a PhD in History from Yale with an emphasis on American culture, ideas, and media, and is the author of Horace Greeley: Print, Politics, and the Failure of American Nationhood. (Here’s a delightful 1930 accounting of Greeley’s life, with an emphasis on his Civil War years, written by William Augustus Croffut, who died in 1915. Why this piece appeared 15 years after the author’s death is a mystery for Jake to solve.)

Jake has already written for us; here’s his excellent piece about the 11-year-old girl who was most likely responsible for Abraham Lincoln’s iconic facial hair.

Our effort to bring the archives to life that has already achieved excellent results, thanks in good measure to the work of Shan Wang. Her perpetual digging uncovered A Century-Old Byline Mystery, about the unknown writer who foreshadowed the Titanic disaster. She is a key leader in our newsroom who helps connect our work, old and new, to Atlantic readers. Shan will continue her archives work, of course, in addition to fulfilling her many other leadership responsibilities.

Below is an announcement about Drew Goins, from managing editor Bhumika Tharoor:

We’re thrilled to welcome Drew Goins as a senior editor!

Drew joins us from The Washington Post, where he was most recently the creator and writer of the Today’s Opinions newsletter and host of the Impromptu podcast. He will report to me, and will be helping think through strategies to develop and strengthen relationships with readers. To start, he will be focused on how we can use trivia to create new and engaging experiences for our audience—something he is well positioned for as a Jeopardy! champion.

Drew is from North Carolina and graduated from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where he studied journalism, music, and Hispanic linguistics, the latter of which has resulted in a lot of strong thoughts on vowel placement, if you ever have a spare hour and a half.

I’m sure Drew will feel right at home here at The Atlantic, and not only because he’s in good company with fellow Jeopardy! stars. We’re excited for him to bring his talents, and fun facts, to our team.

The Atlantic has welcomed a number of editors and writers this year, including managing editor Griff Witte; staff writers Tom Bartlett, Isaac Stanley-Becker, Idrees Kahloon, Tyler Austin Harper, Quinta Jurecic, Nick Miroff, Toulouse Olorunnipa, Ashley Parker, Alexandra Petri, Missy Ryan, Michael Scherer, Jamie Thompson, Josh Tyrangiel, Caity Weaver, and Nancy Youssef; andsenior editors Jenna Johnson and Dan Zak. Please reach out with any questions or requests.

Press Contacts: Anna Bross and Paul Jackson, The Atlantic | press@theatlantic.com


From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

view more: ‹ prev next ›