We Have To Talk: Gerb Crawlers
Dispatches from the pavement outside Kaia Gerber’s book club.
Welcome to this week’s mini-edition of We Have to Talk, a fortnightly newsletter in which Sam and George exchange their most pressing and ridiculous reflections on pop culture. Subscribe to get a hot mess of tepid takes directly into your inbox, twice a month.
This week, the boys cannes barely contain their excitement, but experience a Kaialamity as their karma catches up with them.
S: Hello George, or should that be hello again, as it was mere hours ago that we were left humbled and reeling on the pavement outside Kaia Gerber’s inaugural London bookclub meet-up, after the doorman misplaced my RSVP. To be fair, it was probably a smart call on his part as I had invited you with the promise that it would give us something good to discuss in this substack. I even had copy pre-prepared about baying crowds of civilians conferring the status of intellectual upon our glamorous literary sherpa, while her presence granted us fleeting communion with the global literati. But alas, it was Down and Out in London for us, so I hope the rest of the attendees had an illuminating evening hearing the star of Bottoms speak with a writer heretofore best known to me for scrapping with Charli XCX on twitter over who came up with a four letter word first (the book under discussion was called ‘Brat’, also the name of Charli’s forthcoming album).
In truth, the book sounds like something I would enjoy, and I was ready to be charmed by the whole affair. But having been denied the opportunity, I must once again return to being a hater, like Quasimodo retreating to his tower.
And I must apologise for tearing you away from your pre-Cannes preparations, with the festival hurtling so swiftly around the corner. In brief – any learning lessons from this mortifying episode of Gerb your Enthusiasm, and what are you most excited for at the festival?
G: Mixed emotions, comrade. It was humbling to be on the streets of Temple with a literal window into Kaia’s club, mere dirt on the shoes of the Kylie Jenner lookalikes who swanned in ahead of us. That said, I am about to go to Cannes, where I will be attending several industry soirees (primarily in a work capacity, but also for the plot). Ironically, just two weeks ago I was managing the guest list for a Letterboxd preview screening of La Chimera, at which several RSVPs were similarly misplaced, and I had to improvise several ways of saying sorry to the disgruntled Letterboxd members who’d journeyed into central London on a Monday night. Of course, I had snuck you onto the guest list there, so perhaps this was my karma for acting like a nepo baby.
My Cannes excitement is annoyingly dampened by my punishing day job, from which I’ll be clocking off on Wednesday and heading straight to the airport, but that is inarguably not a real problem. I am, of course, looking forward to Furiosa – I rewatched Mad Max: Fury Road last week and still cannot quite believe it exists – and am equally intrigued as to how much of a mess Megalopolis allegedly is. I’m also keeping an eye on some of the titles in the running for the Queer Palm, such as Andrea Arnold’s Bird, Viet & Nam, a Vietnamese migration drama, and The Beauty of Gaza, a documentary following trans Palestinian refugees.
I shall text you updates from the Croisette, including any celeb sightings - though last year I came up fairly short beyond seeing Martin Scorsese walk past the press room through a window. Have you got anything good coming up, if you choose to leave the tower?
S: In the tower I shall remain, glued to twitter as the Cannes reactions pour in. Like everyone, I’m eagerly awaiting responses to Megalopolis (the recent teaser had my inner pol-theory geek pumping his fists), but also very much looking forward to reviews for Schrader’s Oh, Canada, Lou Ye’s latest, and Cronenberg’s The Shrouds, plus Christophe Honoré’s mad-sounding latest where Marcello Mastroianni’s daughter pretends she’s her father. And with that, I wish you adieu! If you see our girl Kaia on the carpet, tell her I said hey.
[Note: This edition of WHTT was written and edited prior to publication of The Guardian’s article about the production of Megalopolis.]
From the Drafts:
Rejoicing broke out across London this week as in-store Costa Coffee joined the ranks of the drink options on the Co-op meal deal. It’s truly the summer of that Me Espresso. (S)
Drag name ‘Mia Spresso,’ karaoke name ‘Jemima Singer’? (G)
On balance – and Night Tsar excepted – it was good to see Sadiq Kahn re-elected as London’s mayor, even if it means not using my planned “Sadiqing Arrangements” newsletter headline. And to all the soft-led lads who were pipped to the post on their summer wedding fits, I’m sure you’ll look lovely anyway. (S)
Get your fucking ass up and allow passengers off the train first. It seems like no one wants to allow passengers off the train first these days. (G)
This newsletter applauds the general public for finally deciding to match Tinashe’s freak by making Nasty a viral hit. Now keep streaming. (S)
If you’re ever feeling anxious about a mistake you’ve made at work, just remember even Zadie Smith can be a massive idiot, and in the New Yorker, no less. (G)
The Week that Was:
George is watching: Ashamed to say this week marked my first-ever viewing of First Reformed, a masterpiece. I am now seeking a partner to lie on top of me and transcend.
Sam is reading: The first twelve pages of Elizabeth Smart’s ‘By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept’. Wish me luck!
George is listening to: Jessica Pratt’s sublime new album, ‘Here in the Pitch,’ which joins the Feist school of making gentle strumming and incisive lyrics sound like the entire world.
Sam went and saw: Isabelle Huppert LIVE! at the Barbican!, in a weekend-long transfer of Mary Said What She Said from Paris’s Théâtre de la Ville. An extraordinarily forceful performance in a somewhat inscrutable one-woman show. Seeing her on stage was a true bucket list moment.
We Have to Talk returns for a full edition in two week’s time.