It's Monday, and I know what we're all asking: What's Laura Dern up to these days?
Never fear. She'll be back. She's rumored to have an appearance in the upcoming sequel to "Jurassic World." And she's starring in a sex-abuse movie. And she's at work on the second season of "Big Little Lies," which will also involve Meryl Streep. (HBO stepped in hot water when an executive said, "BLL, and GAME OF THRONES, are *raping* this network, financially, right now. Because of those two shows, we don't have any money." Some people thought that that was a silly use of the verb "to rape.")
As we prepare for the next Season of Laura Dern, let's look back at one of her odd mid-career triumphs, "Year of the Dog." Here, Dern is sort of the villainess. She's obsessed with her little child--so obsessed that she won't allow the child to experience the world. Molly Shannon gives a copy of "Babe" to the child, and Dern recoils. ("Oh my!" she says. "That's a bit intense.") Dern worries that her Latina domestic assistant is drugging the little child with Benadryl, as a way of creating quiet in the household. But Dern can't speak up--can she?--because, to make an accusation against her own servant, she would have to betray her own self-image, relinquish her Saint-of-Political-Correctness title. (It's never spelled out whether the Benadryl actually is getting abused, and this is part of the genius of Mike White. Sometimes, White suggests, over and over, you must simply tolerate uncertainty.) Laura Dern commits the sin that many new, or new-ish, parents commit: the sin of being boring. She wants to talk--and talk and talk--about gluten. Though she wants to radiate motherly concern for all creatures, she circles and circles around Environmentalist Molly Shannon in a rabbit's-fur coat, and she lazily says, "Oh, when I bought it, I thought it was *fake* rabbit! I really did!" (Of course, she also owns eight or ten other fur coats, and she doesn't work hard to conceal her own lie. To Shannon, clearly, the lie is much more insulting than the existence of the fur coat.) Throughout, Dern uses her goofy, pliable face, and she walks the razor's edge that separates compassion and vicious satire, as she also does, memorably, in her Katherine Harris performance ("Recount").
Laura Dern has an actual philosophy about reality TV. She believes it can make actors better, because it puts, on the screen, a range of emotions and new, weird behavioral tics that we might not otherwise have access to. Dern watches reality TV and she poaches various behavioral choices--and then she adds those choices to her repertoire. And she can articulate the steps of this process beautifully. She paired with Mike White because she saw he was smart, and she became a kind of acolyte; she appeared both in "Dog" and "Enlightened" (and I suspect we haven't seen the end of the Dern/White pairing). When asked about Amy Jellicoe, Dern describes her feelings as "protective." She's not there to mock her character, but to say, this, too, is human--and to get us to laugh at *ourselves* and understand *ourselves* better.
(Have I dipped into self-parody yet? There's a Lorrie Moore story about a woman: "At the academic conference, she mainly wanted to talk about movies, and movie stars." Guilty as charged!)
In Mike White's stories, you can see White working over the same plot of land, again and again and again. "Enlightened" takes the obsessive weirdo and gives her a happy ending. "Beatriz at Dinner" takes the obsessive weirdo and gives her a very bleak ending. "Year of the Dog" takes the obsessive weirdo and lands somewhere in between. (The stable of actors does some rotating. In one work, Dern is the protagonist; in another, she's the slightly repugnant associate. And then the "Krysta" actress does slightly-repugnant-associate work in "Enlightened." In "Year of the Dog," Shannon has the "Enlightened"/Dern role. In "Enlightened," Shannon has the Connie Britton/Regina King/semi-helpful-and-stupefied-friend role. Especially powerful writers attract permanent collaborators, in this way. Think of Sondheim and Bernadette Peters, or think of Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig.) White is especially good at showing how political zeal can corrupt a person. When Amy Jellicoe breaks into computers, and forces the White character into awkward situations, and lies breezily to her doofus boss, it's not really admirable (though her Major Intentions are admirable). When the "Dogs" protagonist dips Dern's furs in cold water, and takes a small child to a farm to witness the Holocaust of Chickens, and steals from her employer, that stuff, too, is somewhat less-than-admirable. (White expertly stirs up the queasy feeling where you really, really want the protagonist to succeed, and yet, simultaneously, you feel allergic to that same protagonist's behaviors. Maybe no one creates this complex sensation with more ease than Mike White.)
I especially love the Rubix cube feeling you get when you arrive at the climax of "Beatriz at Dinner." There, in a dream sequence, Salma Hayek swings a knife at John Lithgow. You're transported right back to "Year of the Dog," where, in the actual world of the story, mid-climax, Shannon swings a knife at John C. Reilly. This doesn't feel like creative exhaustion, to me; it feels like one writer getting drawn again and again to certain quandaries, and stretching his mind to find new ways in which age-old conflicts could play out. "I could try to write a sex farce," says Mike White, "but I know my territory. I know the particular talent God gave me. So I use that weird talent, and just that talent, in as many ways as I can." (In this moment, as in so many others, Mr. White is self-knowing and wise.)
I could go on. I could mention Peter Sarsgaard, struggling with his "culty past." (Leave it to Mike White to include a deeply troubled asexual dog-expert in an apparent comedy.) I could talk about White's interest in obsessions--whether the germ is animal rights, or childcare, or finding a man, or making more money--and about how these quirky obsessions, and the general idea of obsessive-ness, form the heart of "Year of the Dog." I could talk about White's wonderful use of the ellipsis: "I've never married....it's just...that's just...so...you know...that's...all right now...." (Shannon--expert performer--does an odd and memorable dance with her seat belt, as she spits out these weirdly eloquent words.) Or I could talk more about my love of Dern, and about how we're all still glowing from her triumphant contribution to the most recent "Star Wars." (How do you know the world is fucked? When you see one particular piece of cardboard, Daisy Ridley, getting yards more material than her earth-moving colleague, Laura Dern.) I could discuss all these things, but I must shower. Onward! Thank God for Laura Dern and Mike White!
Never fear. She'll be back. She's rumored to have an appearance in the upcoming sequel to "Jurassic World." And she's starring in a sex-abuse movie. And she's at work on the second season of "Big Little Lies," which will also involve Meryl Streep. (HBO stepped in hot water when an executive said, "BLL, and GAME OF THRONES, are *raping* this network, financially, right now. Because of those two shows, we don't have any money." Some people thought that that was a silly use of the verb "to rape.")
As we prepare for the next Season of Laura Dern, let's look back at one of her odd mid-career triumphs, "Year of the Dog." Here, Dern is sort of the villainess. She's obsessed with her little child--so obsessed that she won't allow the child to experience the world. Molly Shannon gives a copy of "Babe" to the child, and Dern recoils. ("Oh my!" she says. "That's a bit intense.") Dern worries that her Latina domestic assistant is drugging the little child with Benadryl, as a way of creating quiet in the household. But Dern can't speak up--can she?--because, to make an accusation against her own servant, she would have to betray her own self-image, relinquish her Saint-of-Political-Correctness title. (It's never spelled out whether the Benadryl actually is getting abused, and this is part of the genius of Mike White. Sometimes, White suggests, over and over, you must simply tolerate uncertainty.) Laura Dern commits the sin that many new, or new-ish, parents commit: the sin of being boring. She wants to talk--and talk and talk--about gluten. Though she wants to radiate motherly concern for all creatures, she circles and circles around Environmentalist Molly Shannon in a rabbit's-fur coat, and she lazily says, "Oh, when I bought it, I thought it was *fake* rabbit! I really did!" (Of course, she also owns eight or ten other fur coats, and she doesn't work hard to conceal her own lie. To Shannon, clearly, the lie is much more insulting than the existence of the fur coat.) Throughout, Dern uses her goofy, pliable face, and she walks the razor's edge that separates compassion and vicious satire, as she also does, memorably, in her Katherine Harris performance ("Recount").
Laura Dern has an actual philosophy about reality TV. She believes it can make actors better, because it puts, on the screen, a range of emotions and new, weird behavioral tics that we might not otherwise have access to. Dern watches reality TV and she poaches various behavioral choices--and then she adds those choices to her repertoire. And she can articulate the steps of this process beautifully. She paired with Mike White because she saw he was smart, and she became a kind of acolyte; she appeared both in "Dog" and "Enlightened" (and I suspect we haven't seen the end of the Dern/White pairing). When asked about Amy Jellicoe, Dern describes her feelings as "protective." She's not there to mock her character, but to say, this, too, is human--and to get us to laugh at *ourselves* and understand *ourselves* better.
(Have I dipped into self-parody yet? There's a Lorrie Moore story about a woman: "At the academic conference, she mainly wanted to talk about movies, and movie stars." Guilty as charged!)
In Mike White's stories, you can see White working over the same plot of land, again and again and again. "Enlightened" takes the obsessive weirdo and gives her a happy ending. "Beatriz at Dinner" takes the obsessive weirdo and gives her a very bleak ending. "Year of the Dog" takes the obsessive weirdo and lands somewhere in between. (The stable of actors does some rotating. In one work, Dern is the protagonist; in another, she's the slightly repugnant associate. And then the "Krysta" actress does slightly-repugnant-associate work in "Enlightened." In "Year of the Dog," Shannon has the "Enlightened"/Dern role. In "Enlightened," Shannon has the Connie Britton/Regina King/semi-helpful-and-stupefied-friend role. Especially powerful writers attract permanent collaborators, in this way. Think of Sondheim and Bernadette Peters, or think of Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig.) White is especially good at showing how political zeal can corrupt a person. When Amy Jellicoe breaks into computers, and forces the White character into awkward situations, and lies breezily to her doofus boss, it's not really admirable (though her Major Intentions are admirable). When the "Dogs" protagonist dips Dern's furs in cold water, and takes a small child to a farm to witness the Holocaust of Chickens, and steals from her employer, that stuff, too, is somewhat less-than-admirable. (White expertly stirs up the queasy feeling where you really, really want the protagonist to succeed, and yet, simultaneously, you feel allergic to that same protagonist's behaviors. Maybe no one creates this complex sensation with more ease than Mike White.)
I especially love the Rubix cube feeling you get when you arrive at the climax of "Beatriz at Dinner." There, in a dream sequence, Salma Hayek swings a knife at John Lithgow. You're transported right back to "Year of the Dog," where, in the actual world of the story, mid-climax, Shannon swings a knife at John C. Reilly. This doesn't feel like creative exhaustion, to me; it feels like one writer getting drawn again and again to certain quandaries, and stretching his mind to find new ways in which age-old conflicts could play out. "I could try to write a sex farce," says Mike White, "but I know my territory. I know the particular talent God gave me. So I use that weird talent, and just that talent, in as many ways as I can." (In this moment, as in so many others, Mr. White is self-knowing and wise.)
I could go on. I could mention Peter Sarsgaard, struggling with his "culty past." (Leave it to Mike White to include a deeply troubled asexual dog-expert in an apparent comedy.) I could talk about White's interest in obsessions--whether the germ is animal rights, or childcare, or finding a man, or making more money--and about how these quirky obsessions, and the general idea of obsessive-ness, form the heart of "Year of the Dog." I could talk about White's wonderful use of the ellipsis: "I've never married....it's just...that's just...so...you know...that's...all right now...." (Shannon--expert performer--does an odd and memorable dance with her seat belt, as she spits out these weirdly eloquent words.) Or I could talk more about my love of Dern, and about how we're all still glowing from her triumphant contribution to the most recent "Star Wars." (How do you know the world is fucked? When you see one particular piece of cardboard, Daisy Ridley, getting yards more material than her earth-moving colleague, Laura Dern.) I could discuss all these things, but I must shower. Onward! Thank God for Laura Dern and Mike White!
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