An Inauguration Day

Monday, January 20th 2025

I live in Washington DC. I lived here in 2020 when Trump lost the election and an impromptu celebration popped up on 16th Street in front of the White House – I had to leave early because I was seeing a boring man at that time and he did not want to revel in the pale sunlight of a Biden victory with me. I lived here in 2021 when Jan. 6 happened – I was out of town on break from grad school, enjoying my last few days with family before returning to classes. On November 5th of 2024 I was at a bar in my neighborhood, anxiously crocheting as election results were announced and the city entered a months-long state of mourning. I got someone’s number that night, and forgot to text them. 

Today is January 20th, and I was going to go downtown to witness the crowds around the inauguration. People flooded the city from out of town to witness the proceedings, and I’ve been curious about what this group of people are doing while they are here. Alas, our bathroom sink clogged and started leaking through the floor into the kitchen below. A quick plumber call turned into a half-day affair and before I knew it, our 47th President had been inaugurated into office. Are the out-of-towners still there? Do I go to see them, or do I go to the gym? 

Life has happened every day since I moved here in 2020. Today is no different. I sometimes marvel at the gap between large historical beats in this city and the syncopated sixteenth notes of my little existence. I know conceptually, in the recesses of my little gray brain folds, that History has always acted in tandem with daily life, yet it still startles me every time the concept reemerges. Both the plumber and Biden are gone; I do not have to be at home anymore, so where do I go next?  

Some of us (liberal and privileged) have sat shiva since early November. Today I close my mourning cycle, even if I did not see Trump take office with my own eyes. Today, I can leave the house. We can uncover our mirrors, if we wish, and do something with what we see. I wanted to mark the occasion by bearing witness to the newcomers in the city I adore, but part of me is glad that my plumbing emergency kept me home. My therapist once told me that a big way to combat the feelings of helplessness that can accompany depression is by doing. Doing makes you feel capable: look at you go! You are able to go for a walk and fold laundry despite the weight of a cartoon anvil on your torso. When I translate a legal document for a local migrants’ rights org, I feel less like a sixteenth note and more like an eighth note. The gap between History and the window of WordReference pulled up on my computer shrinks a bit. When I stay home to take care of my sink instead of surrendering to the esoteric concept of new neighbors, I feel more grounded. Some stuff matters more in the immediate term. There must be time for larger picture activities, but the smaller picture things must take precedence.

My presence downtown, gawking at the abandoned possessions outside the Capitol One Arena, would likely only bear significance to me. Staying at home means that I impact the lives of my roommates, landlord, and plumber. I want to watch the funeral procession of the entering Trump administration, but I do not believe that me watching the event deserves sacrificing a bathroom and kitchen.

I can do more. There may not be enough sunlight left to go see the MAGA fans downtown after I go to the gym – do I forgo the gym? Am I actually helping anyone by going downtown? Does this count as surrendering my comforts for the sake of my beliefs? I’m extremely glad that neither Martin Luther King Jr. nor John Brown is around to witness the inanity of these thoughts put to digital paper. 

I’ve lived through various types of civil unrest – there is something about the American variety that feels toothless. I have no bite: I’ve seen people block highways with burning trucks and tires to protest corruption. I’ve seen civilian blockades designed to keep state forces from entering specific territories. I’ve seen the entrance to a US embassy set on fire. Former Presidents are in foreign jails, and yet my gym dilemma stands. I think about Taiwan, I think about Chile, I think about Nicaragua. These places and these people give me hope when it feels as though marching is our only option.

I do not know what to do right now, other than to translate documents and pass cash to those who need it. I will let you know when I find something else.

Nosferatu (2024)

Sunday, January 12th 2025

This piece contains my opinions, questions, and is riddled with spoilers. 

You are no longer uninformed. 

It is 8pm. The sun has set. Without Lily Rose Depp’s sacrifice, I could have been in grave, vampire-themed danger by now. Thankfully, I just returned home. I drank some water, listened to a Nosferatu podcast episode, texted my brother telling him that we needed to talk about what the fuck I just witnessed – he hasn’t replied yet, but I don’t think I can hold director Robert Eggers responsible for that one. 

I just finished a movie that I went to see with my work friend. We thought it would be a fun, chill time.

Nosferatu (2024) is a retelling of the 1922 film directed by F. W. Murnau, which is a retelling of Bram Stoker’s 1897 Dracula – this would have been helpful for me to know going in, because I thought Eggers was just being cute by calling what is essentially the same storyline as Dracula by a different name. The 1992 movie, starring Gary Oldman and others, is also called Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and the movie I watched today has basically the same plot. 

I hold no one responsible but myself: I was wholly and desperately unprepared for this film. Boy, oh boy did I learn a little something about the importance of research. My work friend and I had a great day – we climbed, we chatted, we decided to see Nosferatu because we had both heard that it was a really good movie (it is, we just didn’t really do any due diligence beforehand). Neither of us are really horror people, but we figured, incorrectly that, by ages 29 and 30, we had seen most of what the vampire industry had to offer. We’re adults, we know what special effects are, and we have an idea of what the plot is. I had even read the Twilight series. 

Ah! The naivete of the innocent and the young!  

15 minutes into the film I pulled out my silenced phone, opened up Notes, and started tip-tapping away in an attempt to avoid jump scares. My work friend and I shared horrified looks from between our fingers throughout the film. Below are my thoughts, editorialized afterwards in italicized text which I would like to share with you. 

  1. Racist against Eastern Europe…and Catholics?? 

My work friend asked if you can be racist against the Catholics, which is a very good question. It sounds like the kind of thing that white people from my hometown would say, which makes me think that maybe it is not, in fact, possible.

  1. There are mushrooms involved.

Nicholas Hoult meanders between dreaming and wakefulness, jumping through time like a sweet, sweaty bunny.

  1. German but British? 

While watching this movie, I thought that Eggers had decided to sex things up a bit by getting them out of England (the setting for Stoker’s Dracula) and using the vastly more erotic backdrop of 1800’s small-city Germany. Everyone still spoke English in a British accent, despite being German. It turns out that the characters in the 1922 Nosferatu are German because the director of that film is German. The whole thing was originally German, which I did not know because it’s a silent film and also I haven’t seen it. 

In the 2024 version, Eggers keeps the German setting but adds in the English accents to prove that it’s old times. Thus, I solved my own conundrum, though he could have also just used the entire cast of Babylon Berlin if he wanted to really commit to the German setting.

  1. Men should really bring back high waisted pants in this decade  

It’s a universally flattering look and I’m ready for them to make the transition from period dramas to real life. I’m tired of Big MidRise and its monopoly on men’s fashion.

  1. Love the inverted trope of the “dumb blonde” running around, grubby, sexy, and partially clad while searching in vain for a way out. 

One of our main characters, Thomas Hutter (played by Nicholas Hoult), whirls around a castle, sweaty and disoriented, trying to escape in an homage to the 1992 film and the entire mainstream horror genre. I would also be sweaty and disoriented if I had to see that vampire’s peen in real life. Also the way the vampire’s entire body convulses as he eats is horrifying.

  1. Are Nicholas Hoult’s cheekbones real?

They look like waves and I’m ready to set sail. 

  1. Lily Rose Depp’s cheekbones can’t be real. 

You could surf them, I swear. Speaking of LRD’s face, I was not expecting to be blown away by tongue acting during this movie, but WOW. 

  1. Willem Defoe could be named People’s sexiest man of all time and I’d shrug. I wouldn’t be mad. I wouldn’t really even disagree. 

I wrote this before I realized that Willem Defoe wasn’t actually playing the vampire to whom I was referring and hadn’t shown up on screen yet. The person I thought was Willem Defoe was actually a Mr. Skarsgard – post-film research shows that this one’s name is Bill. The vampire himself is not hot, to be clear, but he does this intense thing with his eyes that was mesmerizing. I’m glad I wasn’t alive in the Old Times because the vampires would have gotten me for sure.

  1. The gender commentary is great. Tightening the corset? Blaming everything on the blood? Ethering her when she gets too chatty? Perfect.

I do realize that in this film blood is actually part of Ellen’s issue, but the dismissive tone of the doctors at this woman’s intense suffering was exquisitely done. This was one of the film’s moments of levity that made the gallons of spurting blood almost worth it. 

  1. I want the men to smooch. 

I don’t remember which scene I was experiencing at the time but I don’t disagree with this take. 

  1. The dresses are amazing. 
  1. I want Willem Defoe as my doctor. 

As the movie progressed I decided that I actually don’t want Willem Defoe as my doctor. At one point he stands atop a stone coffin with a torch in his hand, among the rats and laughing maniacally. There’s no way his license is still valid.

  1. Are the women going to smooch? 

They did not – they were actually just friends. 

Not for much longer, though.

  1. The FINGERS. 
  1. The CAMP. 
  1. I know Lily Rose Depp is a nepobaby, but she’s a really good nepobaby.

I will never forgive The Weeknd for introducing her to the mainstream acting world with that one really bad show.

  1. C**ty plaid high-waisted pants. 

I really want men’s fashion to read this. Take notes.  

  1. “The demon has supped of your wife’s blood.”  

I hate the verb. 

Hate it.  

  1. Weird old man convincing a young beautiful woman to sleep with another creepy old man. Good. 

Hollywood, baby!

There were no more notes after this. There was, however, so much shaking and blood and sex, and sometimes all three simultaneously. TWO corpses were fucked, and not by other corpses. I actually think each of the sex scenes in this movie involved a corpse to some degree. 

When the movie ended, the theater was silent for a beat. Nervous laughter began to trickle out, and my coworker and I turned to face each other. “I’m so sorry,” I said, the final shot of the two dead people burned into my mind’s eye. My coworker blinked and then giggled, “What the fuck was that?”

10/10

Incredible acting, beautifully shot and directed, visceral action and a pervasive atmosphere of gloom.