Entertainment
A poet's novel of utopia shows less an ideal than, perhaps, a road map
Book Review
Ours
By Phillip B. Williams
Viking: 592 pages, $32
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Award-winning poet Phillip B. Williams’ debut novel, “Ours,” begins with a death — and a resurrection. A 17-year-old Black boy stands up shortly after a policeman fatally shoots him, as surprised as anyone else that he’s alive. He’s surrounded by the residents of the neighborhood: “Yes, they had left something behind to stand in that street together, blocked off from touching him and told to ‘Back up,’ had it yelled at them as though they were to have as little care and consideration for the boy as the ones who had shot him.”
From this contemporary opening, Williams takes readers back in time to the 1830s, when a woman known as Saint travels around Arkansas, freeing the enslaved and indirectly killing their so-called masters. She takes them to an area near St. Louis and founds a town called Ours, which she intends to keep safe and hidden from the outside world using her conjuring powers. She’s unsure where those powers came from. There’s a lot that Saint doesn’t know, doesn’t quite remember, but what she’s convinced of is that in order to keep the townspeople, called the Ouhmey, safe, she must keep them physically nearby and emotionally at a distance, for “if there’s anything more shockingly unpredictable than freedom, it’s love.”
Saint is only one of many characters whose stories unfold over the course of this deeply absorbing novel. Others include Luther-Philip and Justice, two boys born free in Ours, whose intimacy ebbs and flows through changing times and needs; Frances, whose pronouns and gender identity vary according to the eye of the beholder; and Joy, a young woman with a taste for vengeful violence, who accompanies Frances when the boardinghouse matrons they were staying with in New Orleans are murdered. Some get less page time than others but remain important. Luther-Philip’s mother, for instance, Miss Love, leaves the stage much earlier than her husband, Miss Wife, but her absence, and the way it came about, reverberates throughout the novel. Many of the characters’ conflicts and questions are never fully resolved, but that is because “Ours” is a book that embraces mystery and the unknown, whether found in conjuring and rituals or in the vagaries of lifelong relationships.
“Ours” has a fickle relationship with linearity. (I suspect it’s no coincidence that the novel’s title and town name is a homophone of “hours.”) The town’s denizens variously pass, reject, deviate from, travel through, ignore or lose time. It’s been interesting to see, then, how shorthand attempts to describe the book have leaned into the idea of Ours being an attempt at utopia, a word that doesn’t appear in the book.
* * *
A truism of our times is that the dystopia is already here — potentially a riff on a line attributed to author William Gibson, which goes something like “The future is already here. It’s just not very evenly distributed.” Dystopian fiction, John Scalzi wrote for The Times a few years ago, “lets us simulate our worst imaginings from the private security of our own homes, the better to avoid them in the real world.” The problem, of course, is that we haven’t managed to avoid many trappings of dystopian fiction: a rapidly changing climate and its attendant human displacement; the rise of fascist ideas and rhetoric; a seemingly ever-widening income gap; several ongoing genocides; billionaires building bunkers in case of some worldwide cataclysmic event. By many metrics, the dystopias we’ve been envisioning for decades no longer feel quite so escapist, nor fictional.
It’s against this background that I’ve come to notice a rise in recent fiction that explores possible utopias. Allegra Hyde’s 2022 “Eleutheria,” for example, follows its white protagonist to the titular Bahamian island and to Camp Hope, a commune attempting to address the ravages of climate change by living differently. Last year, in Gabriel Bump’s “The New Naturals,” a deeply disillusioned and grief-stricken Black couple tries to create a utopian society in a bunker in western Massachusetts, where they hope to abandon the plagues of capitalism, politics, racism and global warming. Gabrielle Korn’s “Yours for the Taking,” published in December and set in a dystopian near-future, features the troubling consequences that arise when a white girlboss billionaire decides to create a feminist utopia by cultivating a society without men, to prove that in their absence, peace and harmony will prevail.
None of these novels end up fully endorsing their various utopias, nor is that their intent. Instead, they ask tricky questions about what attempting to create an ideal society entails: What compromises of exclusion are made in the name of future equality? What fundamental human realities do we ignore in our fantasies of perfect harmony? What happens when a foundational ideology works for some but not others? Perhaps most tellingly, these books seem to conclude that it’s largely impossible to manufacture a utopia — which isn’t to say that the project is entirely unworthy, only that curation won’t be how we arrive at equality, safety and peace.
I’m wary of codifying literary trends. In part, the recognition of a trend so often depends on what subset of literature you’re looking at. Science fiction writers, for example, have long been interested in both utopias and dystopias, but those novels from Hyde, Bump and Korn were not presented strictly as science fiction. Another reason for my caution is that many “trend” labels arise from what is essentially marketing language, from book editors and publicists — such as the one who pitched “Ours” to me as being about the creation of a utopian town. For better or worse, this framing remained with me as I read the novel.
Williams writes in his author’s note at the end of the book that “Ours” is his attempt “at creating a contemporary mythology for Blackness in the United States of America.” He says he “aimed to write an epic taking place during the antebellum period where slavery is not the main antagonist without disregarding or disappearing the enslaved.” In other words, the author’s own framework doesn’t include the idea of utopia. Even so, his novel still ends up demonstrating what a utopia can look like.
Ours is a manufactured town, yes, created by Saint for the purposes of providing both safety and freedom to its people, but she refuses to be its leader, and when her meddling causes harm, she suffers consequences, losing the Ouhmey’s trust. In many ways, the 1800s Ours runs itself, without need for a mayor or a police force; it’s a communal effort whose people help one another when and as needed, even when they don’t particularly like each other. They come together to protect the town when it’s under assault, not because it’s perfect, but because it is their home, where they find joy and sorrow and love and heartbreak, where they relive the traumas of their past enslavement while also comforting one another. It is a messy utopia, unpredictable and full of conflict, which is to say it is human.
The novel’s opening indicates that the town has changed drastically in the nearly 200 years of its existence, becoming what Williams calls a hood rather than a town, suffering from the same police violence enacted against Black people all over the country, including infamously in Ferguson, Mo., a real town that like Ours sits just outside St. Louis. And yet its sense of community remains intact.
In a 2022 interview, Williams expressed his interest in navigating “the terrain of harsh realities without falling into the trap of valorizing them,” acknowledging that “rarely are moments simply pure in either direction of beautiful or ugly, peaceful or challenging.” Fictional utopias often fail because they refuse to dwell in complexity, insisting on a moral or ideological purity that ignores the lived realities of human beings and all their hurts. In this sense, “Ours,” for all its elements of magic, fantasy and mythology, is a realistic depiction of how we might arrive at utopia: through people who are always trying to become, always finding ways to navigate and survive harsh realities, always reaching for moments of joy and intimacy.
Ilana Masad is a books and culture critic and author of “All My Mother’s Lovers.”
Only a few years ago, Keith Lee was a professional MMA fighter, doing food delivery and making social media videos to ease his social anxiety.
On Thursday night, however, Lee found himself under the glare of bright lights and walking the red carpet outside the historic Hollywood Palladium on Sunset Boulevard about to be recognized as TikTok’s “Creator of the Year.”
He and hundreds of other creators had gathered for TikTok’s first American awards show. And they had good reason to celebrate.
Only a few minutes before the start of the inaugural show, they got word about a deal that would allow TikTok to keep operating in the U.S. through a joint venture controlled by a group of U.S. investors that includes tech giant Oracle Corp. TikTok confirmed the deal in an email to employees and said it is expected to close next month.
“[TikTok] is the best way to reach people and I know so many people who rely on it to support their families,” said Lee, who has 17.3 million followers of his casual restaurant reviews. “For me, it’s my career now so I can’t imagine it not being around.”
Creators — many of whom are based in Southern California — rely on the app as a key source of income, while businesses and brands turn to the platform and its influencers to promote their products.
Many had worried that the app might disappear after the Supreme Court upheld a ban on the platform because of national security concerns raised by President Trump in 2020.
Trump subsequently allowed TikTok, which has offices in Culver City, to keep operating in the U.S. and in September signed an executive order outlining the new joint venture.
Comedy creator Adam W., who attended the awards show, called the news “game changing.”
With 22.6 million followers on TikTok, Adam W. has amassed a massive audience for his videos that parody pop culture trends.
In one, he’s a contestant on “The Bachelor,” surrounded by a line of lookalike blond models; in another, he’s drinking matcha lattes with Will Smith.
“That’s so good to hear,” said Adam W. of the new ownership. “So many people are able to make careers off of TikTok. There’s so many people out there who go to TikTok to get away from their reality and it means a lot to them, so I think it’s really valuable for us to have.”
TikTok said the awards show is intended to celebrate the influencers who’ve helped transform the app into a global force that has shaped the way younger Americans shop and consume entertainment.
“You represent a truly global community of over 1 billion people on TikTok,” Kim Farrell, the app’s global head of creators, said at the event. “This year, you showed the world just how much impact creators have.”
Despite the historic moment, the awards show was not without technical glitches. Screens that were intended to display clips of contestants and visuals during speeches were dark the entire night.
The two-hour show, in which creators received awards in several categories, featured a range of skits parodying TikTok cultural moments, from Jools Lebron telling the crowd to “be demure,” to Rei Ami of K-Pop Demon Hunters shooting a Labubu cannon into the crowd.
“TikTok definitely changed my life,” Lee said in an interview. “I always planned my life around food, so I’m blessed to just turn the camera on and do the same thing.”
The new ownership of TikTok should allow the app to rebound after it lost market share amid uncertainty over its future, said Max Willens, an analyst at EMarketer.
“This past year, because a lot of advertisers weren’t really sure whether TikTok was going to stay or go, it did kind of slow the momentum that we had seen on that platform,” Willens said. “We think that moving forward that is going to wind up just being a blip.”
NEW YORK (OSV News) – “Avatar: Fire and Ash” (20th Century), the third film in the always visually rich franchise that got its start in 2009, brings forward thematic elements that had previously been kept in the background and that viewers of faith will find it impossible to accept and difficult to dismiss. As a result, it requires careful evaluation by mature movie fans.
Against the recurring background of the fictional moon Pandora, the saga of the family whose fortunes were chronicled in the earlier chapters continues. The clan consists of dad Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) and his wife Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña) as well as their three surviving children, teens Lo’ak (Britain Dalton) and Kiri (Sigourney Weaver) and tyke Tuk (Trinity Jo-Li Bliss).
Rounding out the household is Jake and Neytiri’s adolescent adopted son, Spider (Jack Champion).
As veterans of the earlier outings will know, Jake was originally a human and a Marine. But, via an avatar, he eventually embraced the identity of Neytiri’s Pandoran tribe, the Na’vi. While their biological kids are to all appearances Na’vi — a towering race with blue skins and tails — Spider is human and requires a breathing mask to survive on Pandora.
Lo’ak is guilt-ridden over his role in the death of his older brother, Neteyam (Jamie Flatters), and wants to redeem himself by proving his worth as a warrior. Kiri is frustrated that, despite her evident spiritual gifts, she’s unable to connect with Eywa, the mother goddess the Na’vi worship.
For his part, Jake is worried about Spider’s future — Neteyam’s death has left the still-grieving Neytiri with a hatred of the “Sky people,” as Earthlings are known on Pandora. He also has to contend with the ongoing threat posed by his potentially deadly rivalry with his former Marine comrade, Col. Miles Quaritch (Stephen Lang), who is also Spider’s estranged father.
As if all that weren’t enough, a further challenge arises when the Metkayina, the sea-oriented Pandorans with whom Jake et al. have taken refuge, are attacked by the fierce fire-centric Mangkwan, led by Varang (Oona Chaplin), a malevolent sorceress. A three hour-plus running time is required to tie up these varied strands.
Along the way, the religion adhered to by the main characters becomes more prominent than in previous installments. Thus Eywa is both present on screen and active in the plot. Additionally, Kiri is revealed to have been the product of a virginal conception.
Director and co-writer (with Rick Jaffa and Amanda Silver) James Cameron’s extension of his blockbuster series, accordingly, not only includes material uncomfortable at best for Christians but also seems incongruent, overall, with monotheistic belief. Even well-catechized grown-ups, therefore, should approach this sprawling addition to Cameron’s epic with caution.
The film contains nonscriptural beliefs and practices, constant stylized but often intense combat violence with brief gore, scenes of torture, narcotics use, partial nudity, a couple of mild oaths, at least one rough term, numerous crude and a handful of crass expressions and an obscene gesture. The OSV News classification is L — limited adult audience, films whose problematic content many adults would find troubling. The Motion Picture Association rating is PG-13 — parents strongly cautioned. Some material may be inappropriate for children under 13.
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Entertainment
‘It was by the kids, for the kids’: Chain Reaction’s former booker reflects on the O.C. club’s legacy
My name is Jon Halperin. I booked and managed Chain Reaction from 2000 to 2006. It started by accident while I was running a one-person record label. I went to the club to see the band Melee perform and the prior talent buyer for the club had just quit that day. I told owner Tim Hill I’d do it (having only booked three shows ever at a coffee shop). We slept on it, and I was hired the next day.
I joined Ron Martinez (of Final Conflict). He was booking the punk and hardcore shows. I booked the indie, ska, emo, screamo and pop punk stuff. We made a great team. Best work-wife ever.
Story time. My friend Ikey Owens (RIP) hit me up and told me that he and the guys from At the Drive In were going to be starting a new band. I’d booked Defacto (their dub project) before, and we agreed to throw them on a show and just bill it as “Defacto.” There were maybe 200 people there to see the first show for a band that would soon be known as the Mars Volta.
That wasn’t out of the ordinary. Chain Reaction had many artists grace that stage that went on to bigger things: Death Cab for Cutie, Avenged Sevenfold, Maroon 5, Fall Out Boy, Panic at the Disco, Taking Back Sunday, Pierce the Veil, My Morning Jacket. The list goes on and on.
Jon Halperin, who booked Chain Reaction from 2000 to 2006, stands in front of the club during its heyday.
(From Jon Halperin)
I used to make a deal with the kids. Buy a ticket to “X” show, and if you didn’t like the band, I’d refund you. I never had to. I knew my audience and they trusted my curation of the room. … It was by the kids, for the kids, except I was 30 at the time. I had to think like a teenager. My friend Brian once called me “Peter Pan.”
Halfway through my reign, social media became a thing. There was Friendster and a bit later MySpace. YouTube stated just a few years after. But those first few years of me at the venue, it was word of mouth. It was paper fliers dropped off at coffee shops and record stores. It was the flier in the venue window. It was Mean Street Magazine and Skratch Magazine.
I’d tease the press when they wanted to review a show. If you don’t show up with a pen and paper, you aren’t getting in (sorry, Kelli).
Most music industry went to the Los Angeles show, but smart industry came to us. Countless acts got signed following their shows. You’d often see the band meeting with a label in the parking lot near their tour van.
It was a dry room when I was there. No booze or weed whatsoever. We made only one exception to the weed rule. An artist in a band with Crohn’s disease who traveled with a nurse. Not saying bands didn’t drink backstage, on stage, in their vans (we rarely had buses), but what we didn’t see didn’t happen.
Touche Amoré performing at Chain Reaction in 2010.
(Joe Calixto)
We were often referred to as the “CBGB’s of the West,” and for a lot of bands, locals and touring acts alike, we were just that. We were the epicenter. There were other venues of course, but for some reason, we were the venue to play. Showcase Theater in Corona was edging toward its demise. Koo’s Cafe in Santa Ana was done. Back Alley in Fullerton wasn’t active. Galaxy Theater [in Santa Ana] was still, well, the Galaxy. There was no House of Blues Anaheim. Bands would drive a thousand miles to play one show at Chain Reaction. We were where the local bands started as first of four on a bill and would be headlining us within a year. We were their jumping-off point. We were where the kids came out. The real fans, many of whom started bands themselves.
Thankfully, there are other smaller venues out there today fostering the all-ages scene: Programme Skate in Fullerton, the Locker Room at Garden AMP [in Garden Grove], Toxic Toast in Long Beach, the Haven Pomona, but it’s just not the same. It was a moment in time. A time that will be forgotten in a few decades, but for today, my social media is being inundated with memories of a room that was a second home for thousands of kids.
Zero regrets. It was the best and worst times of my life. Working a day gig and then heading to the venue nearly every day of the week was rough. Relationships and friendships were hard, being that I couldn’t go out at night. I couldn’t get a pet. I was constantly tired. But I wouldn’t trade those six years for the world.
RIP, Chain Reaction.
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