Other Noteworthy Elements

Ryan and Ella’s marriage appears to be on the rocks. Ella wonders if Ryan only married her for the perks of her career (even when they were young, it was clear Ella had a big future in store). And Ryan’s foul behavior suggests this is true.

When Ella forgets to thank Ryan for his support during a speech (because she gets flustered by unexpected interruptions from Governor Bill), Ryan essentially throws a temper tantrum. He uses the incident to try to convince Ella to get him a political position (egged on by his mother, who belittles her own husband). He then resorts to unscrupulous means to manipulate and embarrass Ella, holding the threat of divorce over her head.

We’re told that other politicians despise Ella. Her very presence reminds them of their own inadequacies as policymakers and compromises they’ve made as politicians. (At one point, Ella criticizes the majority of her fellow politicians for spending more time campaigning than they do reading proposed legislation.) Even Bill, when Ella asks him for advice, is hesitant to openly support Ella, since it could hurt his own career. As such, the film seems to serve as a commentary on the political state at large: Ella literally says, “You can’t be popular and fix anything.”

Not long after Eddie’s affairs come out, Helen hugs him and tells him she loves him but that she’ll never forgive him for cheating on his wife. Years later, Eddie seemingly tries to make amends with his children, but it’s fueled by a selfish desire, since his current girlfriend told him she wouldn’t marry him unless he made up with his kids. And when Helen tells Eddie that he needs to stop messing up long enough for his kids to forgive him and do the work required to fix his relationships, he retorts that his kids will “be better” once they forgive him.

We learn that Ella’s mom passed away young, though we’re not given the details of what caused her death. Eddie admits that he sent Casey to military school after her death because he “didn’t want the responsibility” and that he avoided Ella because he was scared of how she’d react to that decision. (At the film’s start, he and Ella haven’t spoken in 13 years.)

A politician uses a cheat sheet of sorts while calling donors to make it seem like he cares about them. People lie, scheme and manipulate others. We hear about political blackmail and bribery. Casey’s job involves advising people on sports betting. A trooper assigned to Ella’s protection unit purposely goes into overtime in spite of a budget crisis because he’s tight on cash and apparently going through an expensive divorce.

Casey is described as agoraphobic because he hasn’t left his house in 13 months. However, he insists that his reclusiveness is a choice—that he can leave whenever he wants. But he does seem to have some severe anxiety about leaving, and we learn that his self-imposed solitary confinement followed an embarrassing romantic mishap. His house is littered with dirty dishes and bags of trash.

A woman gets petty revenge against someone by calling the health department on his pizzeria and getting it shut down.

[Spoiler warning] Ryan, in a strange grab for attention, starts a political scandal for Ella involving blackmail and bribery. He gives Ella an ultimatum, and Ella responds that if he loved her—if he even liked her—he wouldn’t be doing this to her. Because Ryan doesn’t get what he wants, he blames the blackmail and bribery on Ella, telling the press that he’s divorcing her. And the scandal, though completely fabricated, is bad enough for her party to remove her from office.

Leave it to Leslie Jones and menopause to turn “The View” into a more entertaining program.

The “Saturday Night Live” veteran was halfway through a chat Tuesday with Whoopi Goldberg, Joy Behar and the rest of the “View” crew when she suddenly began to sweat — visibly. She coped by dabbing at her face with a small navy blue towel that magically appeared from under the table.

“You’re — you’re hot,” Behar stammered, breaking up a conversation in which she had opined that comics are truth-tellers who undermine propaganda.

“I’m always hot, babe,” Jones replied, continuing her blotting adventure before explaining — perhaps unnecessarily — “I’m having that menopause. That pause, that pause.”

The performer continued. “I am in it,” she said. “I am ‘pause.’ The heat that comes off of me can light a small city in Guadalajara.”

Forget that Guadalajara itself is a city, and not a small one. Jones’ deadpan demeanor at that moment prompted Sunny Hostin to begin fanning her with a large notecard. Behar joined in with her own card.

“Let’s talk about your latest comedy show because it is funny and it’s called ‘Leslie Jones: Life Part 2,’” Hostin said, attempting to get the segment back on track.

She did not completely succeed.

“I’m spritzing!” Jones said as she once again dabbed her moist face with the magical towel.

The show played a clip from her special where she talked about everyone needing to go to therapy, after which Hostin steered “The View” conversation toward dating.

Then Goldberg stole the spotlight, having left her seat to take over dabbing duties from their guest. “I could die now,” Jones said, holding her hands out, palms up, and looking to the heavens with a peaceful smile as she basked in Whoopi’s careful attention. “This is a little — this is a dream. This is a dream come true.”

At that point, Hostin seemed to give up on talking about guys with Jones and started once again fanning her with the notecard.

“Whoopi Goldberg wiping my sweat,” Jones declared, relaxing into the experience.

“Yes, it’s a beautiful moment,” Behar snarked.

Oh, but wait. Hostin was not to be denied. Or perhaps whatever producer was hollering into her earpiece wouldn’t be denied.

“You talk a lot about the men you’ve encountered … so tell us, how’s the pool out there?” she asked, not clocking that the audience was far more interested in Whoopi now fanning Jones by waving the magical towel. “Have you found any men,” Hostin wondered, “who would do that for you?” Fan you? Wipe your sweat?

“Unfortunately, no,” Jones replied. “Listen, I’m 58 now, so I’m past the BS.”

“You’re also post-menopausal at 58,” Dr. Behar interjected, revealing herself to be an armchair expert in female endocrinology. “It should be over by now.”

Jones turned from her reverie and looked at Behar as if the latter were a bag of dog poop burning on her doorstep. But she did not stomp on the bag to put it out. “It’s different for everyone,” Alyssa Farah Griffin chimed in cheerfully.

“Have we got a beef?” Jones asked Behar, looking at her with that stone-faced gaze only Leslie Jones can deliver.

“Not that I know of?” Behar said. “You know what, we respectfully disagree.”

Good to know that Behar thinks Jones isn’t capable of experiencing menopausal symptoms despite Jones experiencing menopausal symptoms right in front of her face.

Meanwhile, Whoopi stepped up the blotting, offering comforting words to Jones while Behar babbled on in her own defense.

“You comin’ at me,” Jones told Behar.

“Let me get your face,” Whoopi said.

“Thank you, baby,” Jones told her personal sweat-swabber.

And the conversation turned back to the dating scene, which Jones correctly told Hostin “is not bleak. It’s diabolical.” As she spoke, Whoopi folded the magical towel, laid it down in a magical resting place and backed away, blowing on Jones as she took slow steps toward her abandoned chair.

“Just blow yourself all over me, babe,” Jones said, and Whoopi stepped back and obliged. Behar, looking uncomfortable, asked someone to grab a hand towel.

“It’s so sad,” Jones said, “that my whole spot is going to be about me sweating.”

After a commercial break, Behar had in hand a small electric fan, which she promptly aimed at Jones. “This one will take care of all your issues.”

“Thank you, darling. I’m good,” Jones said. “Now I’m freezing.”

Nah girl. When it came to Joy Behar in that moment, you were just cold.

W. David Marx’s doomscroll through 21st century pop culture, “Blank Space,” is largely a catalog of cringe.

Kardashians keep barging in, joined by Paris Hilton, Milo Yiannopoulos, MAGA-hatted trolls, latter-day Hitler enthusiast Kanye West and more. The collection of Z-listers in the book runs so deep that there’s no room for even some of the most infamous Kevin Federline-level hacks to fit into its pages. In Marx’s reckoning, we’ve lived with 25 years of mediocrity, with no end in sight. Couture is now fast fashion. Art is IP, AI, the MCU and NFTs. Patronage has become grift.

“Where society once encouraged and provided an abundance of cultural invention, there is now a blank space,” Marx writes. Yes, he’s side-eyeing Taylor Swift, or at least her savvy-bordering-on-cynical approach to fandom. The title of the book, after all, is a nod to one of her hits. This might seem like get-off-my-lawn grousing from a critic who misses the good old days. But Marx’s critique isn’t rooted in pop culture preferences so much as concern with the ruthless ways that capitalism and the internet have manipulated the way we consume, discuss and make use of the arts. Algorithms engineered for sameness and profit have effectively sidelined provocation. Revanchist conservatism, he suggests, has rushed to fill the vacuum.

Weren’t we doing OK not so long ago? The Obama era might have been a high point of inclusivity on the surface, but the past decade has demonstrated just how thin that cultural veneer was. As Marx writes, in a brutal deadpan: “Trump won the election. Not even Lena Dunham’s pro Hillary rap video as MC Pantsuit for Funny or Die could convince America to elect its first female president.” MAGA, Marx argues, wasn’t simply a product of Donald Trump’s cult of personality; it was the culmination of years of ever-intensifying hotspots for macho preening like Vice magazine (cofounded by Gavin McInnes, who’d later found the Proud Boys) and manosphere podcasters like Joe Rogan. Trump — regressive, abusive, reactionary — wasn’t special, just electable.

Marx’s background is in fashion journalism, and “Blank Space” can feel unduly cantilevered toward that world, detailing the history of hip lines like A Bathing Ape and luxury brands’ uncomfortable embrace of streetwear. But fashion writing is good training to make the point that the cultural flattening, across all disciplines, is rooted in matters of class and money. A certain degree of exclusivity matters when it comes to culture, especially for high-end brands, and it starts with street-level changes. But the street, now, is built on ideas of instant fame — “selling out,” once a pejorative, is now an ambition.

That shift, combined with the algorithm’s demand for attention, has made culture more beige and craven. Memes, #fyp, and Hawk Tuah Girl are our common currency now. Artists from Beyonce on down are dragged “into unambiguous business roles, and pushing fans to spend their money, not just on media, but across a wide range of premium, mediocre commodities,” Marx writes. “In this new paradigm, the ‘culture industry’ could no longer sustain itself on culture alone. Personal fame was a loss leader to sell stuff.”

There’s plenty of room to disagree with all this: You and I can reel off any number of novels, art films and TV shows that demonstrate the kind of boundary-pushing Marx says he seeks. (It makes a certain sense that highbrow books and movies would get short shrift in “Blank Space,” being relatively niche pursuits, but his relative neglect of prestige TV feels like a curious lapse.) Still, for every “Children of Men” there are a dozen “Minions” knockoffs, for every “To Pimp a Butterfly” a tidal wave of brain rot. The early-aughts “poptimism” that judged the judgey for demonstrating judgment opened the door to an everything-is pretty-OK lack of discernment.

Whether that’s what put us on a slippery slope to Kanye West peddling T-shirts with swastikas on them is open to debate. But there’s no question that artists are fighting uphill like never before. “How did advocating for timeless artistry at the expense of shallow commercial reality become an ‘elitist’ position?” Marx asks toward the end, pressing creators and consumers alike to sidestep poptimism’s guilt-tripping and operate outside the boundaries of the algorithm.

What would that look like? It may help to set the time machine to a century ago. In “A Danger to the Minds of Young Girls,” critic Adam Morgan considers the case of Margaret C. Anderson, who founded the literary magazine the Little Review in 1914. Though its circulation was as minuscule as its name suggests, it wielded outsize influence on Modernist writing. Recruiting firebrand poet Ezra Pound as her European talent scout, Anderson began publishing works by T.S. Eliot, Gertrude Stein and others, most famously serializing James Joyce’s “Ulysses,” a decision that made her a target of censors and conservatives.

“A Danger to the Minds of Young Girls: Margaret C. Anderson, Book Bans, and the Fight to Modernize Literature” by Adam Morgan

(Atria/One Signal Publishers)

The woman at the center of what Morgan calls “America’s first modern culture war” was a poor fit for her times. Headstrong, queer and disinterested in Victorian pieties, she escaped her smothering Indianapolis family and headed to Chicago, where she hustled work as a bookseller and book reviewer. But her approval of then-risque fare like Theodore Dreiser’s “Sister Carrie” got her tut-tutted by editors. “What they wanted of me was moral rather than literary judgments,” she said.

She struck out on her own, launching the Little Review with her lover, Jane Heap. Anderson was enchanted by outsiders — not just avant-garde writers but radicals like Emma Goldman. She fired back at haters in the letters section. When money was tight, she relocated to a tent north of Chicago to keep the magazine afloat. And when moral scolds seized on excerpts of “Ulysses” — citing the Comstock Act’s ban on sending “obscene” material via U.S. mail — she protested. Copies of the magazine were seized and burned, and her lawyer’s argument that Joyce’s language was too complex to serve as pornography fell on deaf ears.

Even that lawyer, John Quinn, knew the effort was likely futile: “You’re damned fools trying to get away with publishing ‘Ulysses’ in this puritan-ridden country,” he wrote to Anderson and Heap. (The two were sentenced to pay a fine of $50 each, around $900 today.) Through the sepia filter of today, it can be easy to romanticize this tale — a lesbian champion of the arts making the world safe for Modernism. But one valuable thing Morgan’s history does is scrub the sheen off of Anderson’s accomplishment. Anderson had to play a long game, with no guarantee of success. She was forever pleading with patrons for support from month to month. She had to cloak her sexuality, make frustrating compromises in what she published, and absorb attacks and mockery from masses that treated her like a curiosity piece.

Yet it wasn’t wasted effort: Her advocacy for “Ulysses” paved the way for its eventual U.S. publication, with the controversy helping its cause. (James Joyce, like Kim Kardashian, understood a sex scandal could be good for business.) In her later years she lived largely as she pleased, collecting lovers and becoming a follower of weirdo mystic G.I. Gurdjieff. Anderson didn’t have an algorithm to battle, but she did have a censorious moral atmosphere to navigate around, and her story is an object lesson in the one virtue the algorithm has little tolerance for — patience. If we want more works like “Ulysses” in our world (and far less cringe), the financial and critical path is no easier now than it was then. But it will demand a stubbornness from creators and dedication from consumers that the current moment is designed to strip from us.

Athitakis is a writer in Phoenix and author of “The New Midwest.”