Hello Smarty, It's Your Toronto Dispatch!
Dear Wags,
Oh, we’ll get to the Toronto Film Festival in a moment. Looking across Lake Ontario toward the fraught country to the south, our thoughts turn to a long-dead Englishman. Malcolm Muggeridge—journalist, masher, communist-turned-traditionalist, Christian apologist, and scourge of Monty Python—is largely forgotten. You have to wade deep into nerdy conservatism to trip over his name. Still, Muggeridge was the model of tweedy contrarianism that rose in the 20th Century in response to the Cold War, rock and roll, and the sexual revolution.
Like many Western intellectuals of his vintage, Muggeridge was besotted by Marxism in his youth but rejected it; a 1932 jaunt to Moscow cured him of his Bolshevik fantasies. He joined William F. Buckley (a natural-born reactionary) in opposing rising secular cosmopolitanism. Even if sophisticated types disapproved, it was better to stand up for ancient values against the mindless throng.
“Never forget that only dead fish swim with the stream,” he said. That sums up the perennial allure of contrarianism to conservatives.
As America gears up for a momentous presidential debate, those who still call themselves conservatives have some options. They may support Kamala Harris despite some policy differences, because she is a normal politician embedded in an imperfect but worthwhile system. The candidate speaks of her commitment to institutions, the rule of law, military strength, and the peaceful transfer of power—hardly The Anarchist Cookbook. Those who can’t abide the D beside her name could get cute and write in Edmund Burke, but that’s a lame dodge in a consequential election.
Or, they can be contrary and cast their lot with the bomb-thrower. Much of what Donald Trump says is loopy, but that’s priced in. The appeal in voting for the ostensible Republican isn’t in what he promises to do (who on earth believes him), but in getting to poke a finger in the eye of a detestable establishment. To burn it all down, go with the arsonist.
In a decade, Trump has unhitched the GOP from everything it purported to be about—small government, free trade, national defense, traditional values, and American leadership in the world. The party is left with obdurate contrarianism, though it is devoid of Muggeridge’s wit. A vote for Trump is to rebuke the culture for its sins against MAGA. In Trump’s words, it is retribution against a grab bag of hobgoblins—professors who tinker with pronouns, DEI apparatchiks, and the leader’s legal tormentors among them.
Leftist overreach in the wake of George Floyd, the pandemic, and the Gaza War is still there to be called out. The problem for the right is that identitarians, campus protestors, and gender theorists are marginal in this iteration of the Democratic Party (they tend to be outside the tent, picketing). Another set of radical tribalists, the ones jawing about promoting natalism, nativism, and ditching NATO, happen to be powerful Republicans. If their ideas are unpopular, brute contrarianism—if the other guy is for gravity, I’m against it— has plenty of pull.
The loathing conservatives have felt for liberal elites since the 1960s has lured them down rabbit holes. What would Muggeridge make of Tucker Carlson marveling at the Moscow subway, or calling Darryl Cooper—a crank who believes Churchill was the real villain of World War II—the most important popular historian working in the United States today? That’s not conservatism, it’s Opposite Day.
Meanwhile, a federal indictment alleges that Russian agents spent millions on Tenet Media, a Tennessee content company, to spread misinformation. Tenet promoted a host of well-compensated right/contrarian podcasters, who deny knowing anything about it. Interestingly, four leftwing activists in Florida — members of cartoonish outfits called the African People’s Socialist Party and the Uhuru Movement—are on trial for much the same thing. They also claim they didn’t have a clue. Ignorance is what makes useful idiots so useful.
Say what you will about the conservative old guard, but they weren’t know-nothings. If somebody or something — say, the postwar liberal consensus— is telling you things must be a certain way, there’s virtue in pushing back. Buckley wrote that a conservative stands athwart history, yelling STOP. That is a defensible impulse, and on the odd occasion, it’s proven to be heroic.
That’s never been the Trumpian view of the world. His only consistent belief is in self-aggrandizement, and he’ll summon cataclysm in his interest (lately, he’s taken to telling constituents they are in imminent danger of being nuked). Singular narcissism has hollowed out the GOP. Evangelicals have set morality aside for Trump (though a few dissenters are cropping up). The Cold Warriors who shaped the party under Reagan and the Bushes have been exiled. All-devouring personality worship leaves no space for rivals.
There remains a febrile hope among think-tankers and the vanishing GOP establishment that Trump can be corralled into being an avatar for some fantasy of a new conservatism. Project 2025 was the Heritage Foundation’s try at grafting a startling narrative onto chilling incoherence. But Trump is only Trump, saying or doing anything to shore himself up. On a given day, that might be IV for everybody, draconian tariffs, RFK Jr. as national vaccine czar, or Elon Musk as Minister of Government Efficiency. Hold for further details.
The assumption that both parties veered left or right in primaries, and then competed for the center in general elections, is antique. The Democrats are making a go of it, but even without Trump, it’s hard to imagine the Republicans reverting to pre-MAGA form. Too much has changed, and the younger generation is captivated by sundry digital curiosities — masculinity, vaccine skepticism, and crypto. As
(no lefty milquetoast) puts it, what are these so-called conservatives conserving exactly? Not law and order, or the global system they helped shape. Not free markets or the free flow of people and ideas. Surely not orderly governance. That’s a lot to ditch for a poke in the eye.
Contrarianism, unhinged from circumspection and reinforced by the do-your-own-research of social media, is becoming a dangerous new orthodoxy. Yet truth persists. Russia is not our friend. The regulatory state is prone to overreach, but most people prefer clean air and water and do not wish to die from infectious diseases. The FBI is not a socialist front, childlessness is not a moral calamity, and Harris, the former prosecutor who lives in Brentwood, is not a plausible Marxist. To believe the contrary isn’t courageously swimming against the current, but it may be a sign you are drowning online.
“If God is dead, somebody is going to have to take his place,” Muggeridge wrote. “It will be megalomania or erotomania, the drive for power or the drive for pleasure, the clenched fist or the phallus, Hitler or Hugh Hefner.” Or perhaps it’s this tacky carnival, which we’ve indulged in for too long. The thinking contrarian ought to take note.
Yours Ever,
M.V. Fenwick
Running into Toronto like a pack of wild dogs (Searlight/TIFF)
Last year, Hollywood strikes made the Toronto International Film Festival a quiet affair. This time out the famouses are back, and the Oscar race feels wide open. Recall that last fall, two mega pictures — Barbie and Oppenheimer—were already soaking up all the attention (TIFF launched one awards season darling, American Fiction). As we said at the start of seventh grade, this year is going to be different. Here’s our quick take on the best of the fest. — Marcello Rubini and Sarah Brown
Nightbitch. Hacks keep writing that Amy Adams is some kind of hard-luck character because she was in Hillbilly Elegy. Shut up! She’s terrific, and this adaptation of Rachel Yoder’s inventive novel about a stay-at-home mom who is transformed into a dog puts her back in the game. A social satire with fangs—now that’s a play for a seventh Oscar nomination.
Hard Truths. Toronto loves Mike Leigh, and his latest picture skipped Cannes and Venice to make its world premiere here. The great Marianne Jean-Baptiste (Secrets and Lies) reunites with the director to play a thwarted woman struggling to contain her rage. Make way for another Best Actress contender.
The Last Showgirl. Gia Coppola sets Pamela Anderson up for a comeback story in this tale of a Vegas survivor. Toronto audiences are primed to love this drama, which costars Jamie Lee Curtis, Brenda Song, and Billie Lourd.
The Piano Lesson. Fresh off a glowing Venice debut, the Denzel Washington-produced adaptation of August Wilson’s play is shaping up to be Netflix’s big awards play. John David Washington, Samuel L. Jackson, and sensational Danielle Deadwyler will all be in the hunt.
We Live in Time. Love, you may have heard, means never having to say you’re sorry. John Crowley’s original drama about a young couple (Florence Pugh and Andrew Garfield) who meet cute, fall head over heels, and then confront a terminal diagnosis sounds familiar, but it’s got two enormously appealing stars.
Heretic. When Hugh Grant plays bad, he’s very good. In his chiller from A24, two Mormon missionaries (Sophie Thatcher and Chloe East) knock on his door, which turns out to be a terrible mistake. This creepiness was dreamed up by scribes Scott Beck and Bryan Woods (A Quiet Place).
Eden. Wag Supremo Ron Howard returns with a survival drama starring Jude Law, Vanessa Kirby, Sydney Sweeney, and Ana de Armas as a group of settlers on a remote island in the Galápagos archipelago. Hoping to discover paradise, they become trapped in a wilderness hell.
The Bibi Files. This doc from Alex Gibney was a last-minute add to the schedule. It’s being hyped as a searing exposé of Bibi Netanyahu’s corruption. Gibney used leaked interrogation footage of the Israeli prime minister while he was being investigated for fraud, bribery, and abuse of power. It heads up an impressive array of documentaries that include profiles of Adam Kinzinger and Elton John.
The Substance. Imports from Cannes (Sean Baker’s Palme d’Or winner Anora) and Venice (the searing I’m Still Here, Pedro Almodovar’s The Room Next Door) pack this year’s TIFF schedule. Keep an eye out for Coralie Fargeat’s thriller about a fitness guru (Demi Moore) who is offered a magical elixir to stay beautiful forever.
The Fire Inside. Rachel Morrison directs this biographical drama about boxer Claressa “T-Rex” Shields (Ryan Destiny) and her quest for Olympic gold. Bryan Tyree Henry and Judy Greer also step into the ring.
The Folks Who Live on the Hill
The Perfect Couple (Netflix). Nicole Kidman is having a jolly fall, earning raves for the thriller Babygirl and starring in this soapy whodunit. Adapted from Elin Hilderbrand’s bestseller, it’s the story of the snooty Winbury family, who have everything — but hearts! When a corpse floats onto their Nantucket compound, everybody’s a suspect. There’s the chilly chatelaine (Kidman) and Tag, her wayward hubby (Liev Schrieber). There’s the loutish son (Jack Reynor), his bitchy wife (Dakota Fanning), the good son (Billy Howle), and the damaged son (Sam Nivola). Tossed into this viper’s nest is the good son’s zoologist fiancée (Eve Hewson). A pair of wisecracking local cops (Michael Beach and Donna Lynne Champlin) will sort us out. It’s perfectly ridiculous fun. —J.P. Williams
Return of the Bad News Bears
Slow Horses Season 4 (Apple TV+). The best spy series ever returns with a suicide bombing at a London shopping mall, which exposes dark secrets within MI5. It’s up to the misfit toys
