Culture
'Comfortable being mediocre': Why the Pirates keep losing
A decade ago, then-Pirates general manager Neal Huntington presented ownership with plans for $8 million in upgrades to the club’s spring training facilities in Bradenton, Fla. The project would include constructing a 12,240 square-foot performance center to replace a weight room a tenth that size, and expanding a home clubhouse that was the oldest remaining building at a ballpark built in 1923.
Huntington asked for additional funds from ownership to cover the cost. Owner Bob Nutting, according to three sources, told Huntington the money would have to come out of the existing baseball operations budget, which covers everything from scouting to player development to salaries. The $8 million ultimately was drawn over time from the major league payroll.
“That’s what happens,” a former front-office employee said. “Bob is still Bob.”
Nutting, whose family made its money owning newspapers before buying a ballclub and ski resorts, has always asked his management team to do more with less. The Pirates’ 76-win 2023 campaign was 14 wins better than 2022, but still marked their fifth consecutive losing season. Regardless, Nutting says he expects a “meaningful step forward” in 2024. “We collectively believe we can compete for the division and a postseason berth,” he told The Athletic.
But as Ben Cherington, who replaced Huntington, enters his fifth season as Pirates GM, the Pirates are projected to finish last in the NL Central. Their farm system is ranked ninth by The Athletic’s Keith Law, but the Brewers, Cubs, Cardinals and Reds also are in the top 15. And though the Pirates have signed seven free agents this offseason, every other team in the division has spent more.
To win with a low-budget model requires excelling in all areas of player development. But conversations with more than 20 current and former players, coaches and club officials, some of whom were granted anonymity in order to speak freely, revealed numerous issues plaguing the Pirates: Years of misses in the draft and amateur international market. Conflicts between old- and new-school philosophies in the coaching ranks. Distrust among some players in the development process, including a situation last season in which third baseman Ke’Bryan Hayes secretly sought help from the Pirates’ then-Double A hitting coach, who the team let go a short time later. Most of all: A front office handcuffed by a frugal owner.
Nutting, whose estimated worth is $1.1 billion, became the club’s principal owner in 2007. Since then, the Pirates have had a bottom-five Opening Day payroll all but three years: 2015 (24th of 30 clubs), 2016 (20th) and 2017 (24th). The four largest contracts in club history — Bryan Reynolds, Hayes, Jason Kendall and Andrew McCutchen — combined are still almost a half million short of the $288.7 million the Royals recently guaranteed Bobby Witt Jr.
“I’ve been in some meetings where my jaw dropped because we had to wait a day to trade a guy because it was going to save us $30,000,” a former instructor said. “I was like, ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’ This is a $10 billion industry.”
The Pirates ended two decades of losing and made the playoffs in 2013, 2014 and 2015, but the fact that they began 2016 with their highest payroll ever, $99.9 million, obscured the fact they’d lost a parade of veterans without adding any impact players. Payroll declined in each of the next five seasons, dropping as low as $45.2 million in 2021. Players felt Nutting had a chance to double down on winning after 2015, and didn’t.
“He pulled out so quick,” a former player said. “He was kind of comfortable stepping back and being mediocre. That permeates. That’s just what the organization is.”
Pirates team president Travis Williams, in introducing Cherington as Huntington’s replacement in November of 2019, said, “We needed to find a great baseball mind to crack the code in order to be successful in a market like Pittsburgh within the economics of baseball. Others are doing it. We will do it.” Cherington, working under different financial circumstances, had led the big-market Red Sox to a World Series title in 2013.Nutting had cleaned house — parting with Huntington, manager Clint Hurdle, president Frank Coonelly (who resigned), and more than $10 million in buyouts — because he felt the Pirates had fallen behind. He cited more creative, dynamic and innovative models working in Tampa, Milwaukee and Houston. “We need to be back out on the cutting edge,” Nutting said.
The club Cherington inherited in Pittsburgh had been weakened by missing on high draft picks, whiffing entirely in the international amateur market, and failing to transition prospects into big leaguers. For Cherington, cracking the code meant reversing all of this.
But many of those issues remain.
In 2011, the Pirates spent a record $17 million in the draft, shattering the league’s previous high by more than $5 million, and landed Gerrit Cole (first overall), Josh Bell (second round), Tyler Glasnow (fifth round) and Clay Holmes (ninth round).
The league introduced bonus pools the following year to curb draft spending, and since then the Pirates have had shockingly little draft success. Of the 71 players they have drafted in the top five rounds and signed since 2012, only four have produced at least 1 WAR for the Pirates: Hayes (12.5 WAR), Mitch Keller (4.1), Kevin Newman (3) and Jared Triolo (2.1). The Orioles have drawn more total value from just their top two draft picks in 2019: Adley Rutschman (9.6 WAR) and Gunnar Henderson (7.1).
Under Cherington, the Pirates have spent 14 of their 21 picks in the first five rounds on pitchers, so their farm system is now front-loaded with arms, led by last year’s No. 1 overall choice, Paul Skenes. That approach makes sense; starting pitching is the most expensive asset to acquire in today’s game. But few position player prospects are prepared to fill out the lineup. Termarr Johnson, the No. 4 pick in 2022, projects to be a future starting second baseman. But serious questions persist about whether Henry Davis, the No. 1 pick in 2021, has either the defensive ability to stay at catcher or the bat to stick in a corner outfield spot.
Cherington believes the Pirates will end up with multiple major-league contributors from his four drafts, and possibly more. Yet in November, the team reassigned Joe DelliCarri, who had run its drafts since 2012, to a new position and hired Justin Horowitz, who had been with the Red Sox, as director of amateur scouting.
On the international side, the club has not developed an amateur free agent into a consistent impact player since Starling Marte, who first signed in 2007.
This truly is remarkable.
Total WAR accumulated by Pirates’ International FA classes (WAR leaders in parenthesis):
2010: 0.4 (Dilson Herrera)
2011: 3.9 (Harold Ramirez)
2012: -0.1 (Dario Agrazal)
2013: 0.6 (Edgar Santana)
2014: 0.2 (Yerry De Los Santos)
2015: -0.6 (Rodolfo…— Jim Rosati 🏴☠️ (@northsidenotch) January 16, 2024
“It is incredibly difficult to find and project players at such a young age within Latin America,” said Nutting, noting that “we know that we need to be excellent in identifying, acquiring and developing players in Latin America.”
Nutting said the Pirates are among the top few MLB clubs in spending on development. While those numbers are not publicly available, team sources found that assertion to be credible. But, too often, that spending has not resulted in prospects becoming big leaguers.
Like Huntington, now a Guardians special assistant, Cherington’s regime has struggled to transition prospects to the big leagues: Nick Gonzales, Quinn Priester and Roansy Contreras, among others. Their clearest development win is Keller. The former top prospect had 6.12 ERA in his first 46 big league starts, and has a 3.83 ERA in 54 starts since then. He was an All-Star in 2023.
And yet the velocity spike and arsenal change that unlocked Keller’s ceiling came from an independent pitching lab in North Carolina.
Most Pirates who achieve success are traded before they reach free agency. A former team employee recalled a strange sense of urgency in the front office in January 2018 to trade Cole, the staff ace who still had two years of club control remaining. “It was a little frantic,” the evaluator said. “That was the priority. It was like, why?” The Pirates traded Cole and his $6.75 million salary to Houston for four players, but no top prospects. “It was almost like, we have to get rid of that money,” the evaluator said.
Cole, now the Yankees’ ace and reigning AL Cy Young winner, has spent more of his major league career out of Pittsburgh. But he’s sentimental about the three playoff seasons he experienced there.
“I saw how much the Pirates mean to the city and the people of Pittsburgh,” Cole said. “I so badly want them to have that relationship with their team again. It just means so much to those fans. It really does.”
Ke’Bryan Hayes hit .318 with 10 homers and a .933 OPS in almost two months working with minor-league coach Jon Nunnally. (Alex Slitz / Getty Images)
The secret sessions that saved Ke’Bryan Hayes’ 2023 season took place at a private hitting facility in the Pittsburgh area. The Pirates third baseman was on the injured list last July, stewing about being a below-average hitter since 2021, when he decided to take action.
“I was trying this and that,” Hayes said, “and it wasn’t working. I was just like, I don’t feel like being frustrated anymore.”
So he called “Nunns.”
Jon Nunnally, a former big league outfielder, was the hitting coach at Double-A Altoona, the Pirates affiliate about 100 miles from Pittsburgh. When Nunnally, 52, joined the organization in 2019, Hayes’ father, Charlie, an old acquaintance and 14-year major-league veteran, told Ke’Bryan: “He knows what he’s talking about.”
Pirates hitters long had lobbied to work with Nunnally. One former player said, “Everyone in the organization had been going to him for (information) forever.”
“He barely knows how to turns on his computer,” a former instructor added, “but that son of a gun can teach approach.”
Ke’Bryan Hayes and Nunnally first worked together at the Pirates’ alternate site in 2020. Hayes, 27, debuted that September and was National League Rookie of the Month. After only limited contact with Nunnally in 2021 and 2022, Hayes said he made it clear to the club that he would work again with the coach last spring. But once the season began, Nunnally returned to the minors and Hayes struggled anew.
In August, he started meeting weekly with Nunnally. In Hayes’ mind, reuniting with Nunnally after he had slumped in the first half made perfect sense.
“I didn’t want to ruffle any feathers,” Hayes said. “But then it got to a point where it’s just like, you know what? This is my career. At the end of the day, I’ve got to do what’s best for me.”
Both Hayes and Nunnally said they took pains to keep their sessions confidential. “No one really needed to know about it,” Hayes said of his time with Nunnally. “He was secretly helping me help the team. So it helps everybody. That was the way I looked at it. No harm, no foul.”
The sessions proved fruitful. In almost two months working with Nunnally, Hayes hit .318 with 10 home runs and a .933 OPS.
Cherington declined to comment on Nunnally specifically, but said the Pirates are not necessarily opposed to players working with personal coaches. “Many, many major-league players work with different coaches at different times of the year. We support this and we’ve seen many examples of effective collaboration between our major-league coaches and other perspectives,” he said.
However, Nunnally said when the Pirates eventually learned of the sessions, “For sure they were upset.” And when word that the star infielder sought help from a minor league coach was reported by the Post-Gazette, it looked to some like going behind the back of Pirates hitting coach Andy Haines, who already was taking heat from the fanbase for the team’s offensive collapse.
“I didn’t want to cause any problems for anyone,” Nunnally said.
But then, during the last week of the regular season, the Pirates let Nunnally go.
Hayes, who in April 2022 signed an eight-year, $70 million contract, the second largest in franchise history, said he conveyed to Cherington and manager Derek Shelton that he was upset by Nunnally’s departure. His relationship with the coach will continue; Nunnally, after turning down an offer to be Double A hitting coach for the Nationals, said he plans to work privately with Hayes and others.
The move, part of a trend under Cherington of replacing some veteran instructors with less experienced, more analytically savvy replacements, reflected a divide in the Pirates’ approach to player development. (A number of executives and instructors left voluntarily.)
“We had guys who lacked — and when I say lacked, it’s an understatement — experience in leadership,” a former instructor said.
“I’m not saying you need 10 years in the big leagues to be qualified,” a player said, “but you do need to have a certain level of teaching, understanding and communication that fit for players at the professional level.”
Gerrit Cole started the Pirates’ last postseason game in front of a packed PNC Park in 2015. The team has only finished above .500 once since then. (Jared Wickerham / Getty Images)
Before the start of the 2021 Triple-A season, the Pirates asked outfielder Jared Oliva, shortstop Cole Tucker and infielder/outfielder Kevin Kramer to remain at their spring-training site in Bradenton, Fla., for what they called “hitting school.”
Oliva, Tucker and Kramer all had struggled in the majors as hitters. The Pirates wanted them to work with Bart Hanegraaff, a native of the Netherlands who joined the organization under Huntington as a consultant and in 2020 received a promotion from Cherington to be “head of methodology.”
Hanegraaff, 35, specializes in training players to move their bodies more efficiently, employing methods taught by Frans Bosch, a movement expert the Pirates have used to instruct their coaches. Under Cherington, Hanegraaff rose to greater prominence, emerging as an influential voice in the Pirates’ hitting program.
Tucker, skeptical of Hanegraaff’s teaching, told the team he would only remain in Bradenton if Nunnally accompanied him, according to Nunnally and two other sources. Nunnally monitored as Hanegraaff ran the players through core exercises, twists, jumps and aqua bag workouts.
“I was there to just watch,” Nunnally said. “All I could do was say, ‘Listen, it’s great that you can do all these movement things. But you’ve still got to be able to perform in a game. The plan and approach has got to be there.’”
The Pirates at the time did not reveal the sessions to the media, advising the players to keep them “hush-hush.” The sensitivity on all sides highlighted the growing tension in the organization as Cherington introduced new coaches and concepts.
While declining to comment specifically on Hanegraaff or any other employee, Cherington said, “We’re fortunate to have a lot of great expertise in our coaching group and we aim to be open and inclusive about where that expertise comes from.” He added, “While playing games in the minor leagues will always be important, there are times when stepping away from the games and engaging in some intentional practice can have great benefit.”
Some players, however, lost trust in the Pirates’ approach to player development, as the blending of old- and new-school philosophies sent mixed messages and disrupted their progress. And from a player’s perspective, one former instructor said, “the one thing you can’t afford to do in this game is lose time.”
Another former instructor, recalling a presentation Hanegraaff and minor-league hitting coordinator Jonny Tucker gave in 2021, said, “All you heard was, ‘the move, the move, the move,’” meaning, the move to the baseball as a hitter began his swing.
The premise was that if a hitter moved into the right position, he would be better able to see the ball and make swing decisions. Another former coach who attended the presentation considered that logic sound. The problem, both coaches said, was Hanegraaff and Tucker made no mention of rhythm, balance, timing and thought process, all of which also are essential to hitting.
“I love Bart. He has a place in a major-league organization,” one of the instructors said. “But he can’t be in charge of the hitting program.”
Such tension is not unusual when clubs become more analytically driven. Even some who were part of Huntington’s regime acknowledge the team had fallen behind in technology, and needed to modernize. Young players accustomed to tech welcomed Cherington’s introduction of pitch-tracking devices. One former Pirates pitcher said the shift in the team’s processes “definitely felt much more collaborative and a lot fresher.”
But several former players and coaches said the Pirates went too far in their emphasis on data and technology.
“A lot of it was pitch design and pitch shapes and percentages of pitch usage, as opposed to, what is the hitter telling you? What is the game telling you?” said Joel Hanrahan, a former major-league reliever who was a minor-league pitching coach with the Pirates from 2017 to ‘21 before moving to the Nationals.
A former Pirates hitter agreed, saying, “With the new regime, everyone was trying to have the new best thing. They kind of lost sight of players as people.”
Other adjustments created confusion in other areas.
Cherington’s regime gave minor leaguers more freedom than they experienced under Huntington. Players, after years of toiling under strict rules, were encouraged, one former Pirate said, to “be you, the person you’ve always been.” While many players welcomed the changes, a former pitcher said of Huntington’s regimen, “It made us get our s— together. And it made us good pros.”
“I think the intention was fine,” a former instructor said. “The problem is you went from zero to a hundred.”
For some minor leaguers, the transition to the majors, where greater professionalism was expected, became problematic. One former player called it, “a weird divide.”
“They’d say, ‘Wear what you want. Be relaxed. Wear your chains,’” the player said. “And then guys started to go up to the big leagues for the first time, and all of a sudden they’re getting a message in the player messaging system: ‘Hey, guys, you’re in the big leagues. No backwards hats. Look the part.’”
Even in the majors, the Pirates were not always buttoned up. Two on-field incidents in the final two months of the 2022 season drew national attention. A cell phone fell out of infielder Rodolfo Castro’s pocket as he slid into third base. And Hayes was captured on camera standing with his glove off at third and reaching into his back pocket for sunflower seeds as the Mets’ Eduardo Escobar rounded the bag to score.
Both players took responsibility, but Hayes said the 2021 and ‘22 Pirates teams lacked “a veteran presence to hold people accountable.” Hayes viewed the return last season of McCutchen, 37, as a needed addition. But the team McCutchen rejoined was radically different from the one he’d left in 2018.
Teams that struggle in drafting and player development often use free agency to overcome those shortfalls. But the open market is the area in which Nutting’s frugality is most glaring. Under Nutting, the Pirates have spent less in free agency than any other club. Their record contract for an external free agent — two years, $17 million for Russell Martin in 2012 — is $13 million below any other club’s record free-agent deal.
The Pirates have not signed a multi-year free-agent contract since Daniel Hudson in 2017. Nutting has referred to free agency as “the hardest, most challenging and most inefficient marketplace in baseball,” and many executives agree. Still, the Pirates have taken frugality to an extreme.
The Pirates have spent slightly more than $30 million this offseason — less than the Brewers gave Rhys Hoskins — on veteran free agents Aroldis Chapman, Rowdy Tellez, Martín Peréz, Yasmani Grandal, Josh Fleming, Ali Sánchez and McCutchen, all on one-year deals, then added Marco Gonzales and $3 million of his salary in a trade.
Chapman’s $10.5 million contract was the largest average annual value the Pirates have ever given an external free agent. The MLBPA filed a grievance in 2018 against the Pirates, Marlins, Rays and A’s for not spending revenue-sharing money as intended; the matter is still pending.
The Pirates’ projected Opening Day payroll is $81 million, ahead of only the A’s. Asked whether payroll will continue to climb in the coming years, Nutting said, “We have and will continue to invest into the club in the most effective and efficient way possible to bring a winner in Pittsburgh.”
Asked whether he would authorize a multi-year free agent deal with an average annual value in the $15 to $20 million range, Nutting mentioned the Hayes and Reynolds extensions and said, “The most impact on winning in Pittsburgh will always come from the continued improvement of the players that are (on) our roster and in our system.”
For all the Pirates’ shortcomings, their roster has improved, and the division lacks a dominant power. Oneil Cruz is back at full strength after missing most of last season with a fractured fibula. “That will be huge for our lineup,” Hayes said.
“I feel like this year our division is up for grabs,” Hayes continued. “We’ve just got to be hungry, coming into the spring. We’ve got to bring it every day (and) not give in when times are tough.”
Cherington is approaching the same crossroads Huntington reached during his tenure. Huntington, having nearly been fired after a 2012 collapse, broke through in 2013 as the Pirates reached the playoffs for the first time in two decades. Pressure is mounting now for Cherington to follow a similar path.
“Our goal is to build a championship caliber team in a way that is sustainable and fits Pittsburgh,” said Cherington. “We have the resources to do that, and we have to execute.”
Nutting has set the expectation at contention, even while providing limited resources.
“At some point you need to get some horses to run in the derby,” a former evaluator said.
“It comes down to ownership saying, ‘When are we going to go for it and spend money?’ That’s always been the underlying issue.”
(Top image: Eamonn Dalton / The Athletic; Photos: Mike Carlson / MLB Photos via Getty Images; Mark Alberti / Icon Sportswire via Getty Images; Orlando Ramirez / Getty Images; Joe Sargent / MLB Photos via Getty Images)
Culture
Historical Fiction Books That Illustrate the Bonds Between Mother and Child
We often think of the past as if it were another world — and in some ways, it is. The politics, religion and social customs of other eras can be vastly different from our own. But one thing historians and historical fiction writers alike often notice is the constancy of human emotion. The righteous anger of a customer complaining about a Mesopotamian copper merchant in 1750 B.C. feels familiar. Tributes to beloved household pets from ancient Romans and Egyptians make us smile. And we are captivated by stories of love, betrayal and sacrifice from Homer to Shakespeare and beyond.
In literature, letters, tablets and even on coins, we find overwhelming evidence that people in the past felt the same emotions we do. Love, hate, fear, grief, joy: These feelings were as much a part of their lives as they are of our own. And they resonate especially acutely in the bond between mother and child. Here are eight historical novels that explore the meaning of motherhood across the centuries.
Culture
How ‘The Sheep Detectives’ Brought its Ovine Sleuths to Life
Sometime in the 2000s, the producer Lindsay Doran asked her doctor for a book recommendation. “I’m reading that book everybody’s reading,” the doctor replied. “You know, the one about the shepherd who’s murdered and the sheep solve the crime.”
Doran had not heard of the book, “Three Bags Full,” a best-selling novel by a German graduate student (“No one’s reading it,” she recalls responding, inaccurately), but she was struck by what sounded like an irresistible elevator pitch. “Everything came together for me in that one sentence,” she said. “The fact that it was sheep rather than some other animal felt so resonant.”
Doran spent years trying to extricate the book from a complicated rights situation, and years more turning it into a movie. The result, opening Friday, is “The Sheep Detectives,” which features Nicholas Braun and Emma Thompson as humans, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Patrick Stewart and others giving voice to C.G.I. sheep stirred from their customary ruminations by the death of their shepherd, George (Hugh Jackman).
The film, rated PG, is an Agatha Christie-lite mystery with eccentric suspects, a comically bumbling cop (Braun) and a passel of ovine investigators. It’s also a coming-of-age story about growing up and losing your innocence that might have a “Bambi”-like resonance for children. The movie’s sheep have a way of erasing unpleasant things from their minds — they believe, for instance, that instead of dying, they just turn into clouds — but learn that death is an inextricable part of life.
“In some ways, the most important character is Mopple, the sheep played by Chris O’Dowd,” the screenwriter, Craig Mazin, said in a video interview. “He has a defect — he does not know how to forget — and he’s been carrying his memories all alone.”
“Three Bags Full” is an adult novel that includes grown-up themes like drugs and suicide. In adapting it for a younger audience, Mazin toned down its darker elements, changed its ending, and — for help in writing about death — consulted a book by Fred Rogers, TV’s Mister Rogers, about how to talk to children about difficult subjects.
The journey from book to film has been long and circuitous. “Three Bags Full” was written by Leonie Swann, then a 20-something German doctoral student studying English literature. Distracting herself from her unwritten dissertation, on the topic of “the animal point of view in fiction,” she began a short story “playing around with the idea of sheep detectives,” she said. “And I realized it was more like a novel, and it wasn’t the worst novel I’d ever seen.”
Why sheep? “I wasn’t someone who was thinking about sheep all the time,” Swann, who lives in the English countryside and has a dog named Ezra Hound, said in a video interview. Yet they have always hovered on the periphery of her life.
There was a friendly sheep that she used to see on her way to school. There was an irate ram that once chased her through the streets of a Bavarian village. And there were thousands and thousands of sheep in the fields of Ireland, where she lived for a time. “There were so many of them, and you could tell there was a lot of personality behind them,” she said.
A book in which sheep are stirred to action had to be a mystery, she said, to motivate the main characters. “In a lot of other stories, you would have trouble making a sheep realize there’s a story there,” she said. “They would just keep grazing. But murder is an existential problem that speaks to sheep as well as humans.”
Swann (the name is a pseudonym; she has never publicly disclosed her real name) found a literary agent, Astrid Poppenhusen, who brought her manuscript to market. Published in 2005, the book was translated into 30 languages and ended up spending three and a half years on German best-seller lists. (The German title is “Glennkill,” after the village in which it takes place.) Other novels followed, including a sheep-centric sequel, “Big Bad Wool,” but Swann never finished her dissertation.
Doran, the producer, read the book — now published in the United States by Soho Press, along with four other Swann novels — soon after hearing about it. She was determined to make it into a movie. Whenever she told anyone about the idea, she said, she had them at “sheep.”
The director, Kyle Balda (whose credits include “Minions”), was so excited when he first read the script, in 2022, that “I immediately drove out to a sheep farm” near his house in Oregon, he said in a video interview. “Very instantly I could see the behavior of the sheep, their different personalities. I learned very quickly that there are more varieties of sheep than dogs.”
How to make the sheep look realistic, and how to strike the proper balance between their inherent sheep-iness and their human-esque emotions were important questions the filmmakers grappled with.
It was essential that “the sheep in this world are sheep” rather than humans in sheep’s clothing, Balda said. “It’s not the kind of story where they are partnered with humans and talking to each other.”
That means that like real sheep, the movie sheep have short attention spans. They’re afraid to cross the road. “They don’t drive cars; they don’t wear pants; they’re not joke characters saying things like, ‘This grass would taste better with a little ranch dressing,’” Doran said.
And whenever they speak, their words register to humans as bleating, the way the adult speech in “Peanuts” cartoons sounds like trombone-y gibberish to Charlie Brown and his friends.
Lily, the leader of the flock, is played by Julia Louis-Dreyfus. It is not her first time voicing an animal in a movie: She has played, among other creatures, an ant in “A Bug’s Life” and a horse in “Animal Farm.” “When I read the script, I thought, ‘Wow, this is so weird,’” she said in a video interview. “It’s not derivative of anything else.”
Lily is unquestionably not a person; among other things, like a real sheep, she has a relatively immobile face set off by lively ears. “But her journey is a human journey where she realizes certain things about life she didn’t understand,” Louis-Dreyfus said. “There’s also the question of being a leader, and how to do that when you’re questioning your own point of view.”
Nicholas Braun took easily to the role of Officer Tim, the inept constable charged with solving the shepherd’s murder.
“The part was a little Greg-adjacent in the beginning, and I don’t really want to play too many Gregs,” Braun said via video, referring to Cousin Greg, his hapless punching bag of a character in the TV drama “Succession.”
“I’m post-Greg,” he said.
It takes Officer Tim some time to notice that the neighborhood sheep might be actively helping him tackle the case. But Braun said that unlike Greg, who is stuck in perpetual ineptitude, Tim gets to grow into a braver and more assertive person, a take-charge romantic hero — much the way the sheep are forced into action from their default position of “just forgetting about it and moving on and going back to eating grass,” he said.
Braun mused for a bit about other potential animal detectives — horses, say, or cows — but concluded that the sheep in the film were just right for the job. He predicted that the movie would change people’s perception of sheep, much the way “Toy Story” made them “look at their toys, or their kids’ toys, differently.”
“I don’t think people are going to be eating as much lamb after this,” he said.,
Culture
In Her New Memoir, Siri Hustvedt Captures Life With, And Without, Paul Auster
Siri Hustvedt was halfway through a new novel, about a writer tasked with completing his father’s unfinished manuscript, when her husband, the novelist Paul Auster, died from lung cancer.
Continuing that story in his absence felt impossible. They were together for 43 years, the length of her career. She’d never published a book without his reading a draft of it first.
Two weeks later, in the Brooklyn townhouse they shared, she sat down and wrote the first two sentences of a new book: “I am alive. My husband, Paul Auster, is dead.”
“It was the only thing I could write about,” she said.
She wrote about her feelings of dislocation: how she vividly smelled cigar smoke, even though Auster had quit smoking nine years before; how she woke up disoriented on his side of the bed and got into the bath with her socks still on; how she felt a kind of “cognitive splintering” that bordered on derangement. She had lost not only her husband, but also the person she had been with him. She felt faded and washed-out, like an overexposed photograph.
Those reflections grew into “Ghost Stories,” Hustvedt’s memoir about her life with and without Auster. Partly a book about grief and its psychological and physiological side effects, it’s also a revealing and intimate glimpse into a literary marriage — the buoyant moments of their early courtship, their deep involvement in each other’s work, their inside jokes (“I’ll have the lamb for two for one”).
She also writes publicly for the first time about the tragedies the family endured several years ago, when Auster’s son, Daniel, who struggled with addiction, took heroin while his infant daughter Ruby was in his care, and woke up to find she wasn’t breathing. He was later charged with criminally negligent homicide, after an examination found that her death was caused by acute intoxication from opioids. Soon after he was released on bail, Daniel, 44, died of a drug overdose.
A few months later, Auster started to come down with fevers, and doctors later discovered he had cancer. He reacted to the news as perhaps only a novelist would — lamenting that dying from cancer would be such an obvious, unsatisfying ending to a life marked by so much tragedy.
“He said so many times, it would make for a bad story,” Hustvedt said. “It was so predetermined, almost, and he hated predictable stories.”
Tall and lanky with short blond hair, Hustvedt, who is 71, met me on an April afternoon at the elegant, art and book-filled townhouse in Park Slope where the couple lived for 30 years. She took me to the sunlit second floor library, where Auster spent his final days, surrounded by his family and books. “He loved this room,” Hustvedt said.
“I’ll show you his now quiet typewriter,” she said, leading me down to Auster’s office on the ground floor, which felt as tranquil and carefully preserved as a shrine. A desk held a small travel typewriter, an Olivetti, and next to it, his larger Olympia. “Click clack, it really made noise,” Hustvedt said.
Auster rose to fame in the 1980s thanks to postmodern novels like “City of Glass” and “Moon Palace,” which explore the mysteries and unreliability of memory and perception. Hustvedt gained renown for heady and cerebral literary novels that include “The Blazing World,” “What I Loved” and “The Summer Without Men.”
They were each other’s first readers, sharpest editors and biggest fans. They even shared characters — Auster borrowed Iris Vegan, the heroine of Hustvedt’s 1992 novel “The Blindfold,” and extended her story in his novel “Leviathan,” published the same year. (Critics and readers assumed she had used his character, not the other way around.)
“We were very different writers and always were, and that was part of the pleasure in the other’s work,” Hustvedt said.
Friends of the couple who have read “Ghost Stories” said they were moved by Hustvedt’s loving but not hagiographic portrait of her husband.
Salman Rushdie, who visited Auster just a few days before he died, said Hustvedt’s vivid portrayal of Auster — who was witty, warm and expansive, always ready with a joke — captured a side of him that was rarely reflected in his public image as a celebrated literary figure.
“He’s very present on the page,” Rushdie said. “They were so tightly knit, and Paul was Siri’s greatest champion. They were deeply engaged in each other’s work.”
Hustvedt was 26, a budding writer who had just published a poem in the Paris Review, when she met Auster, 34, after a reading at the 92nd Street Y. He was wearing a black leather jacket, smoking, and she was instantly smitten.
They went downtown to a party, then to a bar in Tribeca, and talked all night. He was married to the writer Lydia Davis, but they had separated. He showed her a photo of his and Davis’s 3-year-old son, Daniel. They kissed as she was about to get into a taxi, and he went home with her to her apartment on 109th Street.
Shortly after they began seeing each other, Auster broke it off and told her that he had to return to his wife and son. She won him back with ardent, unabashed love letters that she quotes in “Ghost Stories”: “I love you. I’m not leaving yet, not until I am banished.”
In 1982, a few days after Auster’s divorce, they got married. They were so broke that guests had to pay for their own dinners.
Their writing careers evolved in parallel, but Auster’s fame eclipsed Hustvedt’s. She often found herself belittled by interviewers who asked her what it was like to be married to a literary genius, and whether her husband wrote her books.
“People used to ask me what my favorite book of Paul’s was; no one would ever ask him that,” Hustvedt recalled.
When Hustvedt complained about the disparity, Auster joked that the next time a journalist asked what it was like to be married to him, she should brag about his skills as a lover.
The slights persisted even after Hustvedt had established herself as a formidable literary talent. “One imagines that will go away, but it didn’t,” she said. She’s sometimes felt reduced to “Paul Auster’s wife” even after his death: At a recent reading, a fan of his work asked if she took comfort in reading his books in his absence, as if the real loss was the death of the literary eminence, not the man she loved.
She felt the weight of his reputation acutely when Auster died, and news of his death spread online just moments after he stopped breathing, before the family had time to tell people close to him.
The shadow Auster’s fame cast over the family became especially pronounced when scandal and tragedy struck.
In “Ghost Stories,” Hustvedt details a side of Auster’s personal life that he closely guarded: his relationship with Daniel, whose drug use and shiftiness was a constant source of worry. As a teenager, he stole more than $13,000 from her bank account, her German royalties. In 2000, Auster and Hustvedt learned that Daniel had forged his transcripts from SUNY Purchase after he had promised to re-enroll; he hadn’t, and kept the tuition money.
After each breach of trust, she and Auster forgave him.
“I have to leave the door open, just a crack,” Paul said about Daniel, Hustvedt recalls in “Ghost Stories.”
She writes about rushing to the hospital in Park Slope, where Daniel’s daughter was pronounced dead: “It’s the image of her small, perfect dead body in the hospital on Nov. 1, 2021, that forces itself on me.”
The shock of Ruby’s death, followed by Daniel’s arrest and overdose, was made even more unbearable by the media frenzy. Auster and Hustvedt were hounded by reporters, and made no comment.
“We were not in a position to speak about it when it happened, it was all so shocking and overwhelming and trying to deal with your feelings was more than enough,” Hustvedt told me.
But she felt she had to write about Daniel and Ruby in “Ghost Stories” because their lives and deaths were a crucial part of the family’s story, yet had been reduced to lurid tabloid fodder, she said.
“It would not have been possible to write this book and pretend that these horrible things didn’t happen,” she said. “I also didn’t want the horrible things to overwhelm the book, and that’s a tricky thing, because it’s so horrible, you feel it has to be there, but it isn’t the whole story.”
Before he died, Auster told Hustvedt he wanted that story to be told.
“I didn’t feel that I was betraying him,” she said.
Auster and Hustvedt’s daughter, Sophie Auster, a musician who lives in Brooklyn, said reading her mother’s memoir was painful, but she also felt her father’s voice and presence in its pages.
“Opening the book was extremely difficult for me, but you just sink in,” she said. “She doesn’t let you sit in the sorrow for too long. There’s a lot of life and a lot of joy.”
Hustvedt found it strange to write “Ghost Stories” without sharing drafts with Auster, her habit throughout her career. But often, his voice popped into her head.
“I kind of heard him in my ear, saying things like, ‘That’s a wavy sentence, straighten that thing out,’” she said.
After finishing the memoir, Hustvedt went back to the novel she’d been working on when Auster died. She realized she had to rewrite the first half entirely.
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