Favorite Films of 2018

I briefly thought about presenting an unranked list of ten or twelve favorites this year, but that wouldn’t be as much fun.

As with his great forebear Yasujiro Ozu, it’s hard to say which Hirokazu Kore-eda film is the best, since he returns to familiar, familial themes across his discography with a rare consistency. So, place this well-deserved Cannes Palme D’or winner up there with NOBODY KNOWS and STILL WALKING and admire his ever-present humanism and kindhearted but fair depiction of what ordinary, flawed people do in order to survive while also seeking solace in each other (whether they’re able or even willing to reciprocate.) Also, take note of this year’s best ensemble cast, from the wonderful Kirin Kiki (in her final role) to Sakura Ando, whom in one devastating scene brings to light all of the narrative’s complexities.

Concerning a middle class family in early ’70s Mexico City as filtered through the perspective of its maid, Cleo, this is in direct contrast to the ever-expanding world that was a focal point of Alfonso Cuaron’s last Mexican film, the seminal Y TU MAMA TAMBIEN: based on the director’s own life and heavy with memories and essences of a long-ago past, it’s far more interior. And yet, ROMA often feels as generous as its predecessor. Although individual scenes register as slice-of-life vignettes, their order and procession is key, for they build towards something both heartbreaking and life-affirming. When Cleo says to a co-worker and friend, “I have so much to tell you,” it could be Cuaron’s own epitaph.

A documentary rife with all the euphoria and turmoil (and every emotion in between) of day-to-day life via three young male skateboarders in Rockford, Illinois, one of whom, Bing Liu is the director. I’ve seen this kind of movie before, but never has it felt so honest or carried as much weight this effortlessly. Liu’s editing and cinematography are both exceptional for a film of this scale and budget, and it builds to a powerful finale without calculation. This little, handmade film could serve as a definitive portrait of its time and place in the decades ahead.

The real-life story of Lee Israel, a struggling, middle-aged, alcoholic writer whom in the early ‘90s fell into a brief stint as a literary forger, should be something that works better on page than screen, but director Marielle Heller translates Israel’s own memoir as if it were a living, breathing, sincere re-creation of a now forgotten Manhattan. Aided by top-notch work from Melissa McCarthy (who really should do more indies) and Richard E. Grant, Heller has crafted something so sharp and rich with nuance, I’m not surprised it isn’t dominating the awards season.

The ridiculous and the sublime remain inseparable (as they should) in Paul Schrader’s late-career miracle about a priest (Ethan Hawke, perennially underrated as he ages but arguably never better in a role he nearly disappears into) troubled by climate change, alcoholism, religion-as-business—all the big stuff (and more!) From its austere, slow-track, zoom-in opening credits sequence to an absolutely nutty ending, Schrader conducts a wild ride through the dark night of the soul; for once, he achieves the transcendence so favored by his longtime heroes Carl Dreyer and Robert Bresson.

Excessively funny and appropriately dark, I wasn’t entirely convinced by Armando Iannucci’s peculiar satire until a second viewing confirmed this was nearly as bold (and arguably more formally successful) as its great predecessor DR. STRANGELOVE. The elaborate “musical emergency” opening, the slapstick moving-of-the-body, a deliriously profane argument playing out in front of a small child—all great stuff, though nothing made me laugh so hard or proved so cathartic as Khrushchev (Steve Buscemi, unexpectedly perfect for the Iannucci-verse) bluntly sneering, “You fat fuck!” at the corpse of a slain politician.

Nine months after seeing this, I still can’t understate how terrific Elsie Fisher is as Kayla, an awkward, average fourteen-year-old who’s quirky enough to stand apart from any other similarly-aged protagonist you’ve seen before and also recognizable to an almost painfully universal degree. I’ve also come to further appreciate what writer/director Bo Burnham has pulled off with his debut feature, his affection for the minutiae of this ultra-specific world (one most of us who’ve lived it would rather forget) apparent without distraction from nostalgia’s rose-colored lenses.

Adapted from a Haruki Murakami short story, Chang-dong Lee’s first feature since 2010’s POETRY focuses on a peculiar male-female-male triangle; to get further into the story would lessen much of its mystique; only know that director sets up any number of expectations only to masterfully defy most of them without leaving the viewer feeling cheated. “Haunting” is word used far too often in film criticism, but that’s the exact tone BURNING leaves one with; the ending also secures its place in the canon of slippery, unknowable cinema.

An occasionally frustrating but fascinating puzzle box of a film. On the surface, it appears to be about a teenager (Helena Howard—remember her name), her antagonistic relationship with her mom and her participation in an experimental theater troupe, but there’s so much more going on here—A meditation on the creative process? The danger of making art out of one’s own personal experiences? Or is it all just the unfiltered, interior state of a troubled, possibly mentally ill teenaged girl? Whatever it is, I was fully on board for all its inspired madness.

Spanning a fifteen year period post-World War II, Pawel Pawlikowski’s follow-up to IDA recreates a culture in the throes of a severe political takeover, drawing implications from the minute to fully societal. He limns his focus onto two very different people (inspired by his own parents): a jazz musician and a younger singer who nonetheless are drawn to each other. Each frame is a lovingly crafted tableau, strikingly rendered in high-contrast black-and-white, deep focus photography. The mostly diegetic soundtrack, ranging from hard bop jazz to hymn-like folk songs is a character in itself.


If Beale Street Could Talk
The Rider
Scotty and The Secret History of Hollywood
Support The Girls


The Ballad of Buster Scruggs
BPM (Beats Per Minute)
Grace Jones: Bloodlight and Bami
Lean On Pete
Leave No Trace
Sorry To Bother You
Won’t You Be My Neighbor?


2012: My Life Has Just Begun!

Two-thirds of the tracks below are culled from two Spotify playlists originally posted at the end of 2012: Someone Who Looks Smashing In Athletic Wear (a lyric from Sinead O’Connor’s ferocious cover of John Grant’s “Queen of Denmark”) and You Enjoy Sucking On Dreams (a lyric from “Serpents”, the first Sharon Van Etten song I ever heard.) Scanning my music library, I came up with a dozen more tracks I encountered in subsequent years (many of ’em in 2013, like “Default”, “I’m Getting Ready” and “The Diaz Brothers”.) Also made a few substitutions (“Sovereign Light Cafe” a more enduring Keane song than “On The Road” (but not by much, really); “Dirty Paws” one of my favorite songs ever as opposed to the merely catchy “Mountain Sound”) and a handful of subtractions (Deep Sea Arcade, The Shins, Regina Spektor)–to keep this at forty tracks, process of elimination inevitably sets in.

Looking over what’s left, I sense a lack of cynicism and weariness I’ve cultivated in the years since—to me, this looks like an utopian ideal of an annual mix: career highlights from Saint Etienne and Stars (both of whom I saw in concert that year), great returns from such veterans as Aimee Mann, Dr. John, Fiona Apple and Patti Smith and a few oddities that continue to age beautifully: Claudia Brucken’s late-period Bowie cover, Emm Gryner’s cool Hall & Oates cover, Josephine’s out-of-time cabaret-pop ballad (discovered by me three years later on an episode of Quantico, of all places) and a cheeky, sublime novelty from The Ting Tings’s flop follow-up LP to their 2008 hit debut: “Next time I’m gonna get it right / I’m gonna paint my face like the Guggenheim,” yelps Katie White, incessantly. Fun fact: until I looked up the lyrics today, I thought she was singing “play my bass at” instead of “paint my face like.” Either way, it’s glorious gibberish.

Click here to listen to my 2012 playlist on Spotify.

  1. Saint Etienne, “Tonight”
  2. Tanlines, “All Of Me”
  3. The Magnetic Fields, “Andrew In Drag”
  4. Django Django, “Default”
  5. Diamond Rings, “Runaway Love”
  6. Stars, “Hold On When You Get Love And Let Go When You Give It”
  7. Jens Lekman, “Some Dandruff On Your Shoulder”
  8. Jessie Ware, “Wildest Moments”
  9. Hot Chip, “Let Me Be Him”
  10. Rufus Wainwright, “Bitter Tears”
  11. Sinead O’Connor, “Queen of Denmark”
  12. The Ting Tings, “Guggenheim”
  13. Aimee Mann, “Labrador”
  14. Imperial Teen, “Out From Inside”
  15. Miike Snow, “Bavarian #1 (Say You Will)”
  16. Twin Shadow, “Run My Heart”
  17. Martha Wainwright, “I Wanna Make An Arrest”
  18. Fiona Apple, “Hot Knife”
  19. A.C. Newman, “They Should Have Shut Down The Streets”
  20. Metric, “The Void”
  21. Calexico, “Splitter”
  22. Sharon Van Etten, “Serpents”
  23. Gossip, “Move In The Right Direction”
  24. Dr. John, “Revolution”
  25. The Gaslight Anthem, “Here Comes My Man”
  26. Keane, “Sovereign Light Cafe”
  27. Bat For Lashes, “Laura”
  28. Emm Gryner, “She’s Gone”
  29. Michael Kiwanuka, “I’m Getting Ready”
  30. Patti Smith, “April Fool”
  31. Andrew Bird, “Lusitania”
  32. Josephine, “House of Mirrors”
  33. Ben Folds Five, “Away When You Were Here”
  34. The Mountain Goats, “The Diaz Brothers”
  35. Bettye LaVette, “Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere”
  36. Of Monsters and Men, “Dirty Paws”
  37. A Fine Frenzy, “Now Is The Start”
  38. Field Music, “(I Keep Thinking About) A New Thing”
  39. Claudia Brucken, “Everyone Says ‘Hi’”
  40. Beth Orton, “Mystery”

Jens Lekman, “I Know What Love Isn’t”

(My 100 favorite albums in chronological order: #93 – released September 4, 2012)

Track listing: Every Little Hair Knows Your Name / Erica America / Become Someone Else’s / Some Dandruff On Your Shoulder / She Just Don’t Want To Be With You Anymore / I Want A Pair Of Cowboy Boots / The World Moves On / The End Of The World Is Bigger Than Love / I Know What Love Isn’t / Every Little Hair Knows Your Name

In 2007, I named Jen Lekman’s third album, Night Falls Over Kortedala my favorite of that year, writing, “His droopy baritone and lovably dorky demeanor always positioned this young Swede as the prospective heir apparent to Jonathan Richman, Morrissey and Stephin Merritt; the crucial advance he makes on his third album confirms it.” With such oddball, ultra-specific scenarios like posing as a lesbian friend’s beau to appease her conservative father (“A Postcard To Nina”) or accidentally cutting off his finger when his girlfriend snuck up behind him for a hug (and calling it “You Arms Around Me”, no less), Lekman was, at age 26, one of the better lyricists of his generation.

Today, Kortedala is no longer my favorite album of 2007 (though it would easily crack the top five), in part because his next one not only bested it, but also subverted the very idea of what to expect from Lekman. With only the An Argument With Myself EP coming in between, I Know What Love Isn’t arrived a full five years after its predecessor. During this extended hiatus, Lekman apparently suffered a bout of swine flu (remember when that was a thing?) and, if a good chunk of the new album’s themes were any indication, considerable heartbreak. At the time, he referred to it as his “debut album” even though it was actually his fourth; one can partially rationalize this distinction, as the record largely (but not entirely) eschewed Kortedala’s sample-heavy aesthetic for a more organic, predominantly acoustic palette.

Regardless, I Know What Love Isn’t wasn’t just another great leap forward for Lekman but one made possible by the foundation his earlier records established. None of its songs were as lugubriously (or knowingly) lush as Kortedala’s “Sipping On The Sweet Nectar” or as sonically layered as the 7” version of “Maple Leaves” (from early singles comp Oh You’re So Silent Jens), but these relatively stripped-down tunes confirmed his hangdog persona and sardonic humor were still fully intact. His sad songs ever-more-melancholic, he also continued to fine tune his acerbic wit and kept it from curdling into bitterness or misanthropy.

One of the album’s simplest tunes, the mournful “Every Little Hair Knows Your Name”, appears twice: It kicks off I Know What Love Isn’t as a spare, barely-over-a-minute-long piano instrumental, and returns at the end as an acoustic guitar-and-voice lament that would slip into mawkish territory if not for its quirky asides (the lyric, “An F-minor-11th / or an E-flat-major-7th” features plucked demonstrations of both chords.) Between that pair of almost-matching bookends sit eight near-perfect miniatures, together comprising a ten-track album on the order of Northern Gospel (and all the others listed in that essay.)

Lekman undermines expectations of that first, piano lullaby version of “Every Little Hair…” by immediately following it with one of the album’s most lushly (or perhaps lusciously) arranged songs: “Erica America” is Yacht Rock in comparison with its shimmering chimes and cymbals, atmospheric synth washes, sweet female backing vocals and tasty sax solos. Still, Lekman’s devoid-of-reverb acoustic guitar is front and center, more Bossa-nova than Christopher Cross. Also, Cross would never think to come up with a lyric as funny as, “Sinatra had his shit figured out, I presume,” or wordplay as shrewd as “Summer is exhausting me / with its exhaust fumes and empty promises.”

Such piquancy carries over to “Become Someone Else’s”, only musically rather than lyrically. Crisp guitar pop led by a twinkling piano hook and occasionally fortified by elegant string quartet interjections, it’s an ode to friendship, or more specifically, maintaining one without a steady romantic partner’s distraction. Instead of “a sinking rock tied…” to another person, Lekman would rather be “a flat stone skipping across the ocean.” However, the song’s most notable for a reference to ex-Everything But The Girl singer Tracey Thorn in its bridge. In her solo song “Oh, The Divorces!” from two years before, she sang, “Oh Jens, your songs look at life through a different lens.” Here, he responds, “It all depends what lens you’re looking through, maybe / but all I know ’bout love I learned from you, Tracey.” It’s an “awww” moment for any fan of both artists, but that doesn’t make it feel any less earned.

If anything, “Some Dandruff On Your Shoulder” is of a piece with Thorn’s best compositions. “It’s a young Friday night / and I’m filled up to the brink,” is the first lyric; surrounded by major-7th chords and an equally bright and melancholic arrangement (like a slightly sped-up “Erica America”), Lekman instantly evokes a vivid state of mind: a myriad of possibilities tempered by reality, the desire of taking action kept in check by one’s own tentativeness. The descending chorus of “She asks you what’s wrong / you say nothing, it’s nothing” is one of the loveliest, saddest things I’ve ever heard. It takes a talent as genuine and complicated as Lekman to wring tears over jaunty Caribbean-accented piano triplets and perky sax filigrees.

At its midpoint, the album finally delivers two of those ballads “Every Little Hair…” falsely hinted it would be teeming with. “She Just Don’t Want to Be With You Anymore” has more than a bit of ’80s sophisti-pop flair (just like early Everything But The Girl) but built on tape loops and samples instead of acoustic jazz (though he adds on a few harp arpeggios near the end.) “I Want A Pair of Cowboy Boots”, however, is entirely acoustic: just a guitar, Lekman’s multi-tracked vocal and a few simple xylophone plonks on the chorus. It might’ve made a great country song for someone else, but in his hands, it’s a doleful but not humorless folksong: although his desired boots are certainly made for walkin’, it’s towards “Anywhere but back to you.”

Rather than further wallow in misery, I Know What Love Isn’t picks up the pace from that point. “The World Moves On” opens with an African Highlife-sounding guitar, soon accompanied by piano, finger snaps and a flute melody extrapolating that of Wings’ “Silly Love Songs” (!) as, over six-plus minutes, Lekman relays an epic monologue about being jilted and slowly working through his pain. “You don’t get over a broken heart / you just learn to carry it gracefully,” goes its chorus, so wise and direct that it enables him to get away bon mots like “No one’s born an asshole, takes a lot of hard work / But God knows I worked my ass off to be a jerk,” like a Stuart Murdoch with no filter.

Kortedala’s big-sky production almost returns full-force on “The End of The World Is Bigger Than Love”. Opening with an extended, ABBA-worthy orchestral fanfare, it’s a soundscape as immense and joyous as early ’80s new romantic pop (complete with soaring “Wooo-ooh-oooh’s”), if a little more pastoral and less synthetic. The chorus posits that “A broken heart is not the end of the world” because, well, the title, making this simultaneously one of his most optimistic and caustic songs. The best bit comes three minutes in, when he sprouts off a list of other things dwarfed by said end of the world: “And it’s bigger than the stock market / and the lose change in your pocket / and the Flatbush Avenue Target / and their Pharmacy Department!”, momentum building with each line until the chorus returns for a final time.

Nine songs in and we’ve finally arrived at the title track, which sports a melody even Murdoch would be jealous of. Gentle and sad yet also buoyant and brisk (Those chiming notes! Those handclaps!), it finds Lekman reminiscing on more dating mishaps, like an awkward come-on to the friend sitting next to him in the driver’s seat or proposing to marry someone “just for the citizenship” (he goes on, “I’ve always like the idea of it / a relationship that doesn’t lie about its intentions and shit.”) But he always comes back to the disarming, direct chorus of, “I don’t know what love is, but I know what it isn’t,” and I’ll willing to bet such a simple, warts-and-all declaration resonates on at least some level with most listeners.

As I Know What Love Isn’t circles back to “Every Little Hair…” in its second version, it concludes on a sweet, sad tone Lekman’s sustained across the entire album. What remains so wonderfully affecting about Lekman, even putting aside his lyrical and melodic prowess is that he never suggests he’s entirely given up on love—you always sense his yearning to participate in the madness of it all, even if he doesn’t explicitly say so. Almost another five years would pass before his next album, Life Will See You Now, arrived. Considerably more upbeat but matching the same level of introspection as its predecessor, at first listen I felt moved to called it his best yet: listen to “Evening Prayer”, where he utilizes the least likely subject matter (a man and his plastic 3D replica of a removed tumor) as a catalyst for a repeated lyric (“It’s been a long, hard year”) as urgent and poignant as anything he’s ever written. Life’s a good-to-great album and encouraging for Lekman’s continued growth as an artist, but I Know What Love Isn’t remains the one to hear—so concise and complete, it won’t be a shame if he never fully tops it.

Up next: Fragments of Time.

“Some Dandruff On Your Shoulder”:

“Erica America”:

Film Journal: December 2018

More rewatches (starred titles) this month than usual–chalk it up to the Holidays, and also an unusually abysmal Oscar season at the multiplex (the indieplex, too.)

The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant
Somehow missed this one when I was going through Fassbinder’s filmography in grad school (easy to do, given the quantity.) Not quite up there with ALI: FEAR EATS THE SOUL, but gets exponentially more entertaining as it goes along. Would love to see Trixie and Katya in a remake (though I don’t know which RuPaul alum would play Marlene.) Also, best wallpaper ever? B+

One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest*
Not saying Jack’s not iconic, but he does occasionally suck all the air out of the room. It’s really the ensemble that makes the film: Louise Fletcher (casting a relative unknown in that part was key), baby Danny DeVito, shaved-head Christopher Lloyd, Will Sampson (perfect as Chief) and all the rest. Lovably meandering like most of ’70s New Hollywood Cinema, but those last twenty minutes just destroy me, more so now than when I first saw this at age 16. B+

Maria By Callas
As an opera singer, Maria Callas had an undeniably great voice, but in her time she was also unmatched as to how she embodied her roles onstage (and offstage as well.) Tom Volf’s documentary is a lovingly assembled treasure trove of archival performance and interview footage; I suspect there’s no better introduction for those such as myself who know next to nothing about Callas or opera in general. My only complaint is that it left me wanting even more, like actual footage of her only film, Pasolini’s MEDEA, instead of just an interview conducted during the filming of it, or some of her practicing/perfecting her craft through rehearsals or recording. Still, this is easily a deeper, classier “intimate portrait” than what you’d see on Lifetime TV. B

Dawson City: Frozen Time
Liked the concept far more than the execution, which felt endless and repetitive. Loved the musical score, even if I kept dozing off to it. B-

The Shop Around the Corner*
The last twenty minutes or so of this is what all romances, comedies and rom-coms should aspire to. “You know, people seldom go to the trouble of scratching the surface of things to find the inner truth.” A+

Bombshell (1933)
My, that was a large baked potato. But seriously, Harlow is terrific, as is Frank Morgan and, in an uncredited minor role, Ethel Griffies, best known for her salty amateur ornithologist in THE BIRDS nearly three decades later. B

My Man Godfrey*
To me, William Powell will always be Nick Charles, but this is a genuinely eccentric but not unpleasant alternative that might’ve sustained another five-or-six-film series. A-

The Bells of St. Mary’s*
Schmaltzy but effective. About fifty minutes in, it features the best Christmas pageant ever, and I’d like to think Bergman won the Oscar for her boxing technique more than her tearjerking scenes. B

Holiday Inn*
So effusively charming and fun: edit out the regrettable number in blackface and you have the perfect classic Hollywood Christmas movie. A

It would’ve been great to see this in a theatre, but don’t let that deter you from streaming it at home. I could list all of its imperfections, but the cumulative effect is transformative. In terms of directorial vision, no one else comes close at present. Planning on catching this again in 70mm in a few weeks. A-

I Know Where I’m Going!*
A fine companion to THE EDGE OF THE WORLD, with added Pressburger to flesh out the narrative. Also, who could possibly resist Roger Livesey? A-

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs
Pretty consistent for what amounts to six separate stories only related by genre; also solid for a Coen Brothers film, given how scattershot the last one was. Not as fully realized as NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN (or FARGO, for that matter), but it has a lot of beautifully shot, misanthropic fun. I appreciated how much deeper and bleaker it got with each chapter (christ, “Meal Ticket” could be a Bergman film), with the stagecoach ride at the end a brutally funny/eerie one-act play. Also, Tom Waits was born to portray an old, grizzled prospector. B+

Mon Oncle
Plays like a dry run for Tati’s next (and best) film, PLAYTIME; still hilarious, however, and he’s wise to let Daki the dachshund repeatedly steal the show. B+

If Beale Street Could Talk
Barry Jenkins’ follow-up to MOONLIGHT is nearly that film’s equal in how it further showcases his considerably humane approach to character and story even as he adapts someone else’s text (in this case, a James Baldwin novel.) The leads (Stephan James and Kiki Layne) are both good, but so is the ensemble, especially Regina King, Colman Domingo, Brian Tyree Henry–even Diego Luna (though maybe not Dave Franco.) Jenkins’ mastery of tone and pacing makes palatable what could too easily be a miserable, anguished narrative; if it ends up lacking that singular, personal touch that made its predecessor so special, it doesn’t detract from an effective, emotionally satisfying whole. A

Happy as Lazzaro
File this under “What the heck did I just watch?”, but in a mostly good way. The break occurring near the halfway mark is thrilling and really this film’s purpose for being; the ending’s also well-orchestrated. Less convinced about some of the second half’s logistics, but I was often so delighted by other absurdities (like the gas station scene) that they ended up not mattering so much. B+

The Thin Man*
Nick and Nora (and Asta) Forever. A

2018 Booklist

My ten favorite books I read in 2018; interestingly, only one of them is fiction.

10. Gary Shteyngart, “Lake Success”
Shteyngart’s fourth novel is his best since his first, The Russian Debutante’s Handbook; if it feels like the product of an entirely different world, it is. Using the 2016 election as a timeline, he crafts (what is eventually) a redemption tale graced by his trademark satire and self-deprecating humor.

9. Sloane Crosley, “Look Alive Out There”
As much as I liked The Clasp, her stab at a novel, Crosley is first and foremost one of the best humorous essayists this side of the writer who wrote my favorite book of the year (see below). Detailing such hyperspecific concerns as an obnoxious teenaged neighbor or her porn star uncle, her perspective always remains both relatable and uniquely her own.

8. Parker Posey, “You’re On An Airplane”
Exactly the type of quirky and scattered memoir you’d expect and hope iconic actress Posey to write—like spending an afternoon with her in her Manhattan apartment, she’s your guide and confidante, occasionally irritating but so genuine and insightful you’ll follow her wherever she takes you.

7. Nell Scovell, “Just the Funny Parts”
Veteran TV writer Scovell’s book is part memoir, part industry tell-all and part manual for aspirants; it’s also a frank, funny read along a career path where Scovell points out how her profession has changed and all the regrettable ways in which it hasn’t, without seeming bitter or, on the other hand, sentimental.

6. Jon Ronson, “So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed”
Starts out as Schadenfreude: The Book!, develops into something far more unsettling and labyrinthine. Years from now, we’ll probably see a ton of tomes on the psychology and consequences of the golden age of social media and cyberbullying, and they’ll owe a debt to Ronson’s in-the-thick-of-it examination, published almost four years ago already.

5. Tamara Shopsin, “Arbitrary Stupid Goal”
Retaining the short paragraph/stream-of-consciousness structure of her earlier memoir Mumbai New York Scranton, Shopsin centers on her beloved father Kenny, an irascible, magnificent chef whose namesake restaurant was a Greenwich Village institution for decades; I read this six months before his passing, and in retrospect, it’s an elegy fit for a genuine New Yorker.

4. Michael Powell, “A Life In Movies”
Long out-of-print, I finally procured a copy of this British filmmaker’s first memoir, which covers his life until 1948 when he made his greatest hit, The Red Shoes. For someone who lived through so many cultural changes, partially defining them with his enviable run of 1940s classics co-directed with Emeric Pressburger, his conversational style and amiable wit are always welcome.

3. Hanif Abdurraqib, “They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us”
Maybe the most original music critic I’ve read in years—often from his home base in Columbus, Ohio, Abdurraqib defies categorization, an omnivore writing passionately and eloquently on Future and Nina Simone, but also Fall Out Boy and Carly Rae Jepsen. Using both a Marvin Gaye tale and a trip to Ferguson, Missouri as framing devices, he cements his status as a chronicler of the here and now.

2. Joe Hagan, “Sticky Fingers: The Life and Times of Jann Wenner and Rolling Stone Magazine”
Perhaps this is really Schadenfreude: The Book, only with the comeuppance forever hanging in the air like a dangling, loosened noose. Those who already despise boomer narcissism will only feel further incensed by this portrait of Wenner, whom Hagan early on accurately describes as the Trump of the Left; still, his often jaw-dropping exploits make for such blisteringly funny copy that if you’re at all a fan of late 20thCentury pop culture, you will be no less than entertained.

1. David Sedaris, “Calypso”
When a writer so initially focused on his own obscurity and shortcomings like Sedaris becomes so immensely popular, it threatens to derail the very essence of his humor and sensibility (you can parse it in the books immediately following Me Talk Pretty One Day). Fortunately, his latest suggests he’s grown into this new skin by, of all things, challenging the notion of what readers want from his essays. That’s a roundabout way of saying Calypso is darker and more melancholy than anything he’s previously done, with the suicide of his youngest sister and his 92-year-old father’s mortality both primary threads running through the entire set. Rest assured, he’s still funny and sharp and acutely observational, but with a newfound depth suggesting his best work may be yet to come.

Also, even though it didn’t make my top ten, I have to mention Infinite Jest, which I spent a little over three months slowly combing my way through. To say I loved or hated it doesn’t seem like enough—at the end, I felt as if I endured it more than anything. It is like nothing else I’ve read, for sure, and I’m glad I consumed it, footnotes and all. Be forewarned, though: it requires patience, determination and openness.

Here’s my complete 2018 Booklist, with titles in chronological order of when I finished reading them (starred entries are books I’ve re-read–only four this year!):

  1. Joe Hagan, “Sticky Fingers: The Life and Times of Jann Wenner and Rolling Stone Magazine”
  2. Tom Spanbauer, “Faraway Places”*
  3. Steve Toltz, “Quicksand”
  4. James Mackay (ed.), “Derek Jarman Super 8”
  5. Jenny Lawson, “Furiously Happy”
  6. Julia Phillips, “You’ll Never Eat Lunch In This Town Again”
  7. Patty Yumi, “Sorry To Disrupt The Peace”
  8. Tamara Shopsin, “Arbitrary Stupid Goal”
  9. Tom Perrotta, “Mrs. Fletcher”
  10. Douglas Coupland, “Bit Rot”
  11. Joy Press, “Stealing The Show”
  12. Jon Ronson, “So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed”
  13. Dale Peck, “The Law of Enclosures”*
  14. Penny Marshall, “My Mother Was Nuts”
  15. Jomny Sun, “Everyone’s An Aliebn When You’re An Aliebn Too”
  16. Sam Wasson, “Improv Nation”
  17. Hanif Abdurraqib, “They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us”
  18. Samantha Irby, “Meaty”
  19. David Foster Wallace, “Infinite Jest”
  20. Steven Hyden, “Twilight of the Gods”
  21. David Sedaris, “Calypso”
  22. Jennifer Egan, “Manhattan Beach”
  23. Charles Taylor, “Opening Wednesday at a Theater or Drive-In Near You”
  24. Ruth Reichl, “My Kitchen Year: 136 Recipes That Saved My Life”
  25. Chuck Klosterman, “Chuck Klosterman X”
  26. Jim Meehan, “Meehan’s Bartender Manual”
  27. Margaret Atwood, “Alias Grace”
  28. Chuck Eddy, “Terminated For Reasons of Taste”
  29. Caitlin Moran, “How To Be Famous”
  30. Geoff Dyer, “White Sands”
  31. Richard Brautigan, “The Abortion: An Historical Romance 1966”
  32. Tig Notaro, “I’m Just A Person”
  33. Nell Scovell, “Just the Funny Parts”
  34. Parker Posey, “You’re On An Airplane”
  35. Dale Peck, “Night Soil”
  36. Kurt Vonnegut, “Wampeters, Foma and Granfalloons”*
  37. Rob Sheffield, “On Bowie”
  38. Ezra Furman, “Transformer (33 1/3 series)”
  39. Kevin Allison (ed.), “Risk!”
  40. A.M. Homes, “Things You Should Know”
  41. Gary Shteyngart, “Lake Success”
  42. Richard Russo, “The Destiny Thief”
  43. Karl Ove Knausgard, “My Struggle, Book Five”
  44. Celeste Ng, “Everything I Never Told You”
  45. Sloane Crosley, “Look Alive Out There”
  46. Amy Gentry, “Boys For Pele (33 1/3 series)”
  47. Michael Powell, “A Life In Movies”
  48. Tim Kreider, “I Wrote This Book Because I Love You”
  49. Jean Shepherd, “In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash”*
  50. John Darnielle, “Universal Harvester”

Best Albums of 2018: # 1

1. Tracey Thorn, “Record”

Yes, it’s an all-female Top Five, led by one of my all-time favorite artists. Thorn, a national treasure in the UK, has amassed an enviable oeuvre both as one-half of Everything But The Girl and through her sparse but generally superb solo work. However, Record, which via its cover sticker contains “nine feminist bangers” (go directly to the insurgent, eight-minute-long “Sister”) may be her most immediate and accomplished collection since Amplified Heart.

With an electronic dance tableau feeling homespun rather than secondhand, Thorn reclaims herself as a personable diva, her ever low-throated vocals enhanced, not defeated by age. She details her family history (“Smoke”), her musical origin story (“Guitar”), her decision to have children exactly when she was ready (“Babies”) her first grown child leaving home (“Go”) and her own status as pop star emeritus (“Queen”) all with an authority but also an uncommon closeness, as if coming from a mother, daughter or confidante. On Record’s glorious finale, dancing and drinking with her friends, she notes, “Someone’s singing and I realize it’s me”–the kind of epiphany one looks for but rarely uncovers in pop music.




Best Albums of 2018: # 2

2. Christine and The Queens, “Chris”

On Christine and the Queens’ opener “iT”, Héloïse Letissier brashly suggested, “I’m a man now”; on album number two, she pushes that notion even further, creating a male persona she inhabits both visually and conceptually. But she remains more aspiring popstar god than art project, especially on the first half’s brilliant run of four singles (“Girlfriend”, “The Walker”, “Doesn’t Matter”, “5 Dollars”) which all build upon the ingenuity and hooks of past gems like “Tilted” and “Saint Claude”. The second half has plenty of hooks as well, but the slower songs, such as the devastating “What’s-Her-Name” or the tender “Make Some Sense” cut deepest. And, for all those hooks, on everything Letissier writes and sings, you always sense something timely, crucial and trailblazing is at stake.

“Doesn’t Matter”:

“The Walker”: