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Review of A Seperation

As the credits rolled, we all began to argue. Like a couple choosing sides after their friends’ break-up, my mother and father inserted themselves into Simin and Nadar’s troubled marriage, each sympathetically defending their preferred protagonist’s equally questionable decisions; meanwhile, my ten-year old brother, who had missed most of the movie due to an suspiciously long bathroom break, reconstructed the plot out-loud with intermittent moral commentary to the sharp criticism from my sister and her friend – but here I get ahead of myself.

A Separation, Iranian director Asghar Farhadi’s fifth film, begins with a distressed couple arguing in front of a judge. Simin wants to leave Iran with her eleven-year-old daughter Tarmeh, while Nadar insists on staying to care for his ailing father, who has Alzheimer’s. Although the migration question forces the couple to consider divorce, it is clear from Nadar’s suppressed anger and Simin’s pleading exasperation that more is bubbling beneath the surface. The judge, tired of listening to their domestic squabbling, summarily dismisses them both.

After Simin leaves to live with her parents, Nadar hires a young woman named Razieh to look after his father. Razieh, desperate for money to pay back her husband’s creditors, moves with a nervous energy, quietly enduring a thousand internal worries and preoccupations that play across her tightly pursed lips and forlorn expressions. Razieh’s professional unreliability initially causes minor inconveniences, but eventually ends in tragedy, pitting Simin and Nadar against Razieh and her husband, Hodjar, in a high-stakes legal and personal feud.

The two central conflicts of A Separation, between wife and husband and employee and employer, are inevitably complicated by issues of gender, class, and religion. Hodjar, an unemployed cobbler, emasculated by his inability to adequately provide, sees Simin and Nadar as part of an arrogant, areligious middle class, exploiting his already destitute family. Though Hodjar’s accusations of class-based condescension ring true when, for instance, Tarmeh’s tutor suggests that he beats his wife, more often than not, Hodjar’s own hot-temper lands him into trouble.

As characters are pressured by circumstances and government bureaucracy to confront difficult choices, Farhadi masterfully maneuvers the camera to underscore a sense of precarity and emotional distance. Characters are often separated by glass, walls, and other barriers. The physical separation heightens the already palpable tension and unease between the actors. Within a given space, the viewer’s perspective often changes, slithering through different rooms. The spatial confusion reflects a larger moral uncertainty.

A Separation fulfills the promise set forth by its title, ending in much the way it began – with Simin and Nadar sitting in front of a judge, along with Tarmeh, despite whose best efforts was not successful in bringing her parents back together. As child custody arrangements are discussed, the viewer might ask, “what went wrong?” The answer underscores the tragedy at the heart of A Separation: no person or action was unforgivable, yet small missteps, Nadar’s stubbornness or Simin’s presumptiveness, though easily excusable by the audience – perhaps even perfectly rational – create trajectories ultimately and necessarily at odds with one another. One in reminded the infamous line in Jean Renoir’s The Rules of the Game, “The awful thing about life is this: Everybody has their reasons.”

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Review of The House of Mirth

I was organizing my bookshelf when I realized that I own a surprisingly low number of books written by female authors. In fact, after reviewing a log of the novels I have read in the past year, I discovered that for every female author there are six or seven men. (My music catalog is even worse, with less than 10% of the albums I regularly listen to created by women.) All different nationalities, races, and subject matters are represented, but gender diversity is sorely lacking. In an effort to consciously seek out the female perspective, I decided to read The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton, the author of my favorite book I read in English class this year, Ethan Frome. The two novels could not be father apart, both in theme and setting. Where Ethan Frome is a story of a gloomy Vermont winter, The House of Mirth examines gender and class in New York high society. The fashionable Lily Bart, living a life of luxury she can’t afford, is desperately in search of a wealthy and respectable husband. She becomes mired in controversy after rumors of extramarital affairs afloat. Ostracized by her friends and family, Lily finds the “dinginess” of working class life unbearable.

Although husband hunting plays a central role in the novel, The House of Mirth is not a love story. Instead, it painfully reveals how self-determination, financial dependence, and gender relations are inextricably linked. After her parent’s deaths, Lily was left with little to no inheritance. She is taken in by Aunt Julia Peniston, whose regular allowance is not able to cover Lily’s growing gambling and shopping habits. Although she lives off the generosity of her many wealthy friends, spending the majority of her time in vacation houses along the East Coast or in Europe, Lily constantly teeters of the brink of financial ruin. 

With numerous failed attempts at matrimony, most due to her own stubbornness, Lily seeks alternative forms of revenue. She uses her good looks as currency. Both of Lily’s attempts to reap financial benefits from charming men around her, in the form of loans and prolonged shelter, lead to scandal. On two different occasions in the book Lily is silently suspected of having affairs with married men. As rumors spread, and her reputation becomes permanently tarnished, Lily is forced assemble hats to make ends meet. Bad turns to worse as Lily dies after accidentally overdosing on sleep syrup.

Lily’s tragic descent is a result of gender norms that prevent women from achieving the same financial independence as men. To a large extent, Lily fulfills her womanly “obligations”. She laughs, smiles and nods at all the right times; she is a skilled conversational. In fact, her uncanny ability to mold her personality to whomever she is talking to comes off as slightly disturbing. “Who is the real Lily Bart?” I often asked myself. It seems that hiding one’s true desires and wishes – and instead playing a continuous game of charades – is yet another required sacrifice of womanhood. It’s only when Lily fails to follow social convention that misery knocks on her door. In the beginning of the novel she stands up Percy Gryce, putting an end to their otherwise inevitable engagement. It’s clear that part of her wants to wait for true love – but only part. The internal tension between conformity and silent resistance is a central theme of the book.

However tragic Lily’s circumstances, her reactions against them are even more frustrating to observe. I would argue that if Lily decided to completely cast off the cloak of society, and abandon all its rules, the story’s end would be much different. Unfortunately, Lily is too obsessed with the superficial comfort of elite society, and the wealth that surrounds it, to risk upsetting her social standing. Throughout the novel, I imagined alternative futures for Lily. If she had not feared spinsterhood, Lily could happily grown old with her most loyal friend, Gerty Farish, contributing her time to this or that philanthropic endeavor. Or better yet, she could have married Lawrence Selden, a suitor whose intelligence and charm make up for his lack of money. The latter is made impossible by Lily’s all-consuming fear of “dinginess”. While The House of Mirth is a feminist triumph, critiquing the unfair limitations put on women, it also criticizes the nouveaux riche of New York for their material obsessions. Lily and her set value silk and diamonds over friendship, love, and happiness. 

Wharton’s ability to fully embrace a complex character, whose charm and cleverness is complimented by her snobbery, is admirable. Lily’s inability to take control of her own fate, instead succumbing to the confines of society, is a more accurate reflection of human nature than a Wonder Women character, who doesn’t give two shits about what other people think. Despite the luxury present throughout the novel, The House of Mirth is gritty and pessimistic. Wharton argues that circumstance and society, while obstacles, are not the ultimate enemies of happiness; instead, it’s Lily’s own insecurities that causes her untimely death.

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Review of Cat’s Cradle

Pictures of Kurt Vonnegut cover the wall-to-wall bulletin board in my English classroom. Vonnegut is one of my teacher’s favorite authors. His adoration for the counterculture icon inspired me to check out Cat’s Cradle from my local library. The novel, hailed as one of defining satirical works of the 20th century, revolves around the absurd journey of a young writer John (whose last name is absent from the book). While John attempts to write a book about what important Americans did on the day Hiroshima was bombed, he becomes obsessed with Felix Hoenikker, the Nobel-winning scientist who helped develop the atomic bomb. John learns about ice-nine, created by Hoenikker, which is a form of water that is solid at room temperature. Any water in contact with ice-nine immediately turns solid as well. John and the Hoenikker children, who are in possession of ice-nine, through a series of coincidental events, all end up on St. Lorenzo, a small fictitious Caribbean island under dictatorial rule. The island is home to Bokononism, a religion that is equal parts absurd and cynical. John and the Hoenikker children’s adventure on the island end when ice-nine is accidentally released. The apocalypse ensues, as all the Earth’s liquid water is depleted.

Before I read the first sentence of the first page, the table of contents immediately caught my eye. My edition of Cat’s Cradle boasts 127 chapters in 286 pages, making the average chapter length two and a quarter pages. Within the 127 chapters, readers are jerked along a plot that begins as a story about the research for a book, takes an unexpected turn into the politics and culture of a made-up civilization, and ends with a description of the world’s end. The novel’s structure has caused some to criticize the book as disjointed; however, I believe the Cat’s Cradle’s unusual organization enhances Vonnegut’s underlying arguments. The fantastic plot – while enjoyable in its own right – underline’s the absurdity of technological, religion, and fatalism – the three subjects most closely examined by the book. Furthermore, the short chapters – which are analogues to small scenes or episodes – suit the book’s sarcastic and comedic tone. 

More than anything Vonnegut should be commended for his writing. The novel is full of brilliant aphorisms and a biting black humor. Although academic texts about the arms race and free will abound, Vonnegut makes such ideas more personal – and thus, more terrifying. Vonnegut’s comedic skill entices reader’s to venture into territory so grave and unsettling that unbridled earnestness would scare reader’s and force them to put down their book, before they engaged with any substantive ideas. And boy, does Vonnegut have a lot to say.

Cat’s Cradle was published in 1963, a year after the Cuban Missile Crisis brought the world to the brink of nuclear war. It is important to keep such historical context in the back of one’s mind because it informs much of Vonnegut’s arguments about the role of technology in society at-larger. Ice-nine is clearly a large metaphor for the large stockpiles of nuclear weapons kept by the United States and Soviet Russia. Throughout the book, Vonnegut asks readers whether technological progress necessarily translates into societal or ethic progress. From the failed attempts to industrialize the poverty stricken St. Lorenzo to the ultimate destruction of the world, the answer is a definitive no.

More than a critique of science itself, Vonnegut questions the tendency to view science and scientific institutions as innocent, above the atrocities they help create. Dr. Hoenikker is obsessed with the challenge of unraveling the mysteries of the natural world, without any consideration to the practical applications of his research. The millions of death caused by the bombs he creates never once cross his mind. One of the Hoenikker children recalls, “A scientist turned to Father and said, ‘Science has now known sin’ [in reference to the atomic bomb]. And you know what Father said? He said, ‘What’s sin?’” Cat’s Cradle is not distracted by appeals to the beauty of natural truths; it holds the scientific community responsible for the consequences of its discoveries. 

Where Vonnegut’s ideas about technological progress are consistent and reach definite conclusions, Cat’s Cradle presents a complex and often contradictory view of religion. Beyond ice-nine, the imaginary religion of Bokononism is the book’s most ingenious invention. Bokonon, who writes the religion’s sacred texts, is completely forthright that every poem and tenet he scribes is a farce. A central principal of Bokonisim is “live by the foma [the Bokonist term for lies] that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy.” It might seem that Vonnegut is satirizing the tendency to believe whatever mystical worldview makes us happiest; however – unlike science – religion actually does make the people of St. Lorenzo content. Even the narrator succumbs to the sweet lies of Bokonisim. I have not made my mind on whether Vonnegut is criticizing religion in its entirety or encourages belief in the mystical so long as it is accompanied by self-awareness. 

In Cat’s Cradle the role of religion bleeds into the discussion of Vonnegut’s favorite philosophical subject, free will. Bokonon subscribes to a fatalist worldview. The Books of Bokonon tell us that everyone is part of a karass, a group of people supernaturally linked together in order to complete some cosmic goal. Like the Tralfadorian belief in fate – as described in Slaughterouse-Five – Vonnegut uses Bokonisim as a medium through which to criticize passiveness in the face of “destiny”. Bokonisim inspired the citizens of St. Lorenzo to commit mass suicide after the apocalypse because they believed God was trying to kill them. They felt resigned to their fate, so they spared God the trouble and killed themselves instead. Vonnegut, like the activists and protest movements that defined his generation, encourages readers to act and resist against the face of adversity.

With all its brilliant ideas and hilarious quips, Cat’s Cradle will not be a favorite among readers who value character development or inter-character relationships. Vonnegut, like many sci-fi authors, is obsessed with ideas and uses characters only as means to convince readers of his arguments’ merit. I know myself as a reader; I thrive on rich, developed characters. As such, I’m sure I was not able to enjoy Cat’s Cradle as much as my English teacher. However, no matter one’s literary proclivities, we should all read Cat’s Cradle, if only to experience the wonderful confusion of laughing out loud, even while Vonnegut plainly describes how the world is going to utter shit. 

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Review of Baby Driver

When I was a boy, I kept a collection of Hot Wheels cars and a plastic racetrack in my room. I sat for hours on end, watching the miniature Ferraris and Bugattis accelerate as they passed through two rotating rubber cylinders on the track. It was during those long afternoon that I first understood the simple thrill of going fast. Now sixteen, I have recently begun driving. The memories of toy cars return to me each time I touch the accelerator. My recent re-appreciation for speed and cars – as well as a star-studded cast, beloved directory, and spell-binding trailer – inspired me to go and see Edgar Write’s new movie Baby Driver. The film centers on the life of Baby (Ansel Elgort) – most of the characters’ names are monosyllabic aliases – a talented getaway driver who is blackmailed by the mysterious criminal mastermind Doc (Kevin Spacey), who enlists Baby in a series of high-risk, high-speed robberies and heists. After Baby falls in love with Debora (Lily James), a waitress at a diner he often frequents, he is motivated to put an end to his life of crime. However, circumstances conspire against him and he is left making some difficult choices.

Unlike many popular action or comedy directors (I’m talking to you Michael Bay), Edgar Wright has true technical skill. He doesn’t simply rely on loud noises, big explosions, and dialog to engage audiences, but uses camera movement and blocking in interesting and innovative ways. Baby driver certainly meets the criteria for a good action movie – namely, it continually thrills watchers with exciting action scenes. In the beginning of the film, Baby sits in a red Subaru, waiting for his team to return from a bank with millions in cash. A car chase ensues, with the police nipping at Baby’s heels. Wright embraces traditional car chase tricks with incredible detail: swerving against oncoming traffic, turning with the hand brake, darting though a red light, and more. It is easy to criticize the movie’s lack of imaginative action sequences; however, I think there is something admirable in Wright’s perfected simplicity. Some nights, something cool and clean is all you want. If the action scenes are relatively uninspired, the use of music is definitely original. In one scene, Baby is getting coffee for his crew, before a recently accrued loot is divided. Baby has tendentious; he constantly listens to music in order to drown out the dull buzzing in the back of his head. Instead of a straight cut to the café, Baby bobs, weaves, and swaggers while walking there. The rhythm of Baby’s movement synchronizes with the tempo of the music in his ears. Movement and music are interwoven throughout the movie, reinforcing Wright’s reputation as a director who can make audiences sit on the edge of their seat even during the most mundane scenes. 

Like many movies, the villains are the film’s most interesting characters. Doc, Buddy (John Hamm), and Bats (Jamie Fox) are three classic criminal caricatures. Spacey – unsurprisingly – plays the all-knowing puppeteer with ease and charisma. His Darth Vader moment at the end – not a big spoiler – was equal parts surprising and adorable. Bats’ half-crazy attitude can be laugh-out-loud hilarious, but Fox’s comedic timing occasionally slips, leaving an awkward silence in the theater. When I saw Hamm in the teaser trailer, I was slightly nervous. Period drama to action movie does not seem like a natural transition. However, the investment banker-turned-crook exhibited phenomenal emotional range. Through the course of the movie, Buddy slowly transitions from cheery, always cracking jokes, to extremely aggressive. If they decide to make a sequel, which I have heard rumors about, Buddy would make a terrific protagonist.

My major beef with the movie are the two lovers, Baby and Debora. Elgort is likable enough, with powerful – if cliché – good guy tendencies; he takes care of his aging foster father and thinks about his dead parents often. However, Baby lacks motivation for becoming a criminal, which made me confused throughout the film. The explanation that we’re given – that his parents were killed in a car accident, while he was sparred in the back seat – leaves much to be desired. The romance, while one dimensional, eventually sucked me in. Both actors are attractive enough make the most cringe worthy lines powerful. If the writing is not up to par, I must admit the two actors do have good chemistry. There’s not much to say about Debora. I don’t have a full idea of her as a character, although the fulfillment of her dream to “head west on 20, in a car I can’t afford, with a plan I don’t have” left me with a feeling of happiness that I can only assume implies some limited investment in the character.

After leaving the theater, a few friends and I stopped at a Chinese restaurant for dinner. Eating my shrimp with broccoli, I began formulating an outline for this very review. With all the analysis and meditation upon character’s motivation – or lack thereof – one emotion still consumed my mind, its physical manifestation seen in my heightened pulse and dilated pupils. With all its faults, Baby Driver is an incredibly exciting movie! No, it is not Shaun of the Dead or Hot Fuzz, spoofs of the zombie and cop movie, respectively, and Wright’s two most acclaimed films; it is not self-aware of the many tropes associated with similar stories through a century of cinematic tradition, nor does it transcend the confines of its genre. In an age saturated with irony and sarcasm, Baby Driver is completely sincere in its pursuit to be a great heist movie – and nothing more. Wright accomplishes what he set out to do: take audiences on one hell of a 112-minute ride.

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Review of Love in the Time of Cholera

About a year ago I picked up A Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. I read about fifty pages before the repetitive names and sudden shifts in time had me so confused that I surrendered, put the book back on my shelf, and vowed to return to it when I was a more mature reader. This summer, determined not to give up on Márquez, I decided to read his second most famous book, Love in the Time of Cholera, with the hope that it would help me appreciate the great Columbian novelist whose works have defined and inspired a generation of Latin American literature. 

At its heart, Love in the Time of Cholera is a story of unrequited love. In his youth Florentino Ariza falls deeply in love with Fermina Daza, the daughter of a wealthy, but shady businessman. Although the two rarely see each other, they maintain their connection through a correspondence of hundreds of letters exchanged by Fermina’s aunt. After Fermina’s father, Lorenzo, discovers the affair, he moves the family to live with his deceased wife’s family in a far-away city.  Lorenzo wants to break up the romance because he has made it his life’s work to find a rich and prominent husband for his daughter. He is successful; after Fermina returns home, she realizes her love for Florentino was no more than an adolescent fancy. She marries the respected and accomplished Dr. Juvenal Urbino. While Fermina and Juvenal build their life together, Florentino waits fifty-one years, nine months, and four days for Juvenal to die so that he can rekindle his relationship with Fermina. In the meantime he rises the ranks of his uncle’s riverboat company and becomes an unapologetic womanizers, maintaining 622 “long-term liaisons.”

Before the meat of the plot was underway, Márquez’s writing style hooked me to the book. Flip to any page and the luscious prose will beg to be read. The Márquezian voice is complex, with metaphors weaving in and out of sentences, while remaining direct and pungent. One of my many favorite passages from the book reads, It was as if they had leapt over the arduous cavalry of conjugal life and gone straight to the heart of love. They were together in silence like an old married couple wary of life, beyond the pitfalls of passion, beyond the brutal mockery of hope and the phantoms of disillusion: beyond love. Even without knowing the context of the scene, the beauty is immediately obvious. The prose is consistently heart wrenching whether internal thoughts, emotions, human interactions, or the natural world is described. Márquez’s sophisticated, yet sympathetic narration is ideal for a novel set in an aging city about a life-long romance. 

Beyond the writing, Márquez’s technical skills are clearly exhibited. Often I find classics to be incredibly enjoyable for about twenty minutes, after which they become tiresome and dull. Love in the Time of Cholera is incredibly readable. It is expertly paced and will keep the attention of a moderately impatient reader, such as myself. I like how Márquez structures the novel, as well. The first chapter – the chapters are quite long – discusses the day Dr. Urbino dies. The last chapter starts where the first left off, with what happens after his death. The middle chapters relay the rest of the love triangle’s tragic lives. Reaching the last chapter, and having all of my questions from chapter one answered, was incredibly satisfying. It also reminds the readers of the complexity and history that constantly surround us, as a few inconspicuous events in the first chapter lead us down a dark and deep rabbit whole, spanning over fifty years.

The one element missing from Love in the Time of Cholera is the magical realism that Márquez pioneered. However, what the book lacks in physical impossibilities, it makes up for in psychological miracles. Márquez purposefully extends the boundaries of unrequited love, beyond its believable limitations, to illustrate very real human tendencies. Florentino’s extended pining shows the way love morphs and changes throughout our lives. The intense passion of a teenager transforms into the steadfast determination of an adult. Moreover, as Florentino enters old age, the nearness of death provides the ultimate motivation to wrap up life’s loose ends. Although Florentino’s love changes, it always remains in one form or another, even in the face of death – perhaps Márquez’s most powerful statements. However, it would be naïve to treat love as a pure and benevolent force. Florentino’s Gatsby-esque desire to repeat former glory comes at a cost. His single mindedness ruins his life. He experiences no great joy or satisfaction during his fifty-plus years alone. Although there were many opportunities for Florentino to make a new life with a new woman, he turns them all down. Florentino’s last affair is with a child, which illustrates the perversity of his need to return to a simpler, more innocent, and happier time. Florentino’s surroundings reflect his internal dilemma. He lives in a dying city, with an aging elite that wishes to return the time of the viceroys. Love in the Time of Cholera is not all doom and gloom. The books’s ending – which I have tried not to spoil – argues that some semblance of the past can be reclaimed; however, it comes only after immense sacrifice, leaving some readers to wonder: Is it worth it?

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Hasan Minhaj and Identity Politics

After Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 presidential election last November, Democratic strategists and citizens throughout the country were faced with one devastating question: What went wrong? In the weeks that followed some commentators hypothesized that Clinton’s proclivity towards identity politics as a political paradigm, or her tendency to appeal to women, African American, Latino, and L.G.B.T voters at the expense of courting the white working-class vote, was a major factor in her defeat. For a further description of the aforementioned conclusion I suggest reading Mark Lilla’s op-ed, “The End of Identity Liberalism” in the Times. In the Trump presidency liberals have grappled with how to reflect the authentic experience of people of color, while ensuring that such dialogue remains inclusive. Last week I re-watched Hasan Minhaj’s stand-up routine, Homecoming King, which recently was released on Netflix. Minhaj, who is most famous for his work on The Daily Show and his speech at the White House Correspondence dinner, masterfully illustrates how this balance can be achieved.

Throughout the special, Minhaj illustrates that issues of race and culture only exist within larger, human themes. He seamlessly intertwines his Indian Muslim background with more universal experiences, combatting the divisiveness that Lilla wrote about. The most striking example of such storytelling also happens to be the center of the show. Minhaj tells how he developed a crush for the new girl in his calculus class, Bethany Reed. The two immediately hit it off. Their study sessions at each other’s houses morphed into a secret romance. As senior prom rolled around, their calculus teacher insisted that the entire class attend, for their own social well-being. Bethany and Hasan decided to go together. On the night of the dance Hasan sneaked out of his room – God forbid his parents find out he went to prom – and biked to her house. Mrs. Reed opened the door with a confused face. She politely informed him that because photos would be taken and shared with their family her and Mr. Reed decided that Bethany needed to attend prom with someone more “appropriate,” implying that Hasan’s dark skin posed a threat to their daughter’s special night. Devastated, Hasan biked home and played Mario Kart the rest of the night. The anecdote reveals how racism can come in the way of love and passion. At that moment, discrimination and rejection were inextricably mixed. We can all immediately identify with crushes that broke our hearts. By infusing racial tension with a love story, Minhaj prevents the special from becoming unrelatable and accusatory. Human experiences and events related to identify collide in other instances as well, especially when he talks about his father or sister.  

Stylistically, Hasan also merges two separate worlds to create a special that remains authentic, while still connecting with non-Desi audiences. The special is peppered with Hindi and Urdu. For example, early in the set he goes into a lengthy exposition about the use of the phrase “log kya kahenge,” which means, “What will people think?” His use of foreign language contrasts sharply with his otherwise urban vocabulary. Slang like “baller” and “savage” are accompanied by pop culture references about Drake and the Taken movie series. Minhaj’s use of language compounds the effect of his stories; he demonstrates how racial or cultural differences, while integral to our identity, are all built on a foundation of shared experiences. Whether Minhaj is speaking in Urdu or English, his humor and enthusiasm is ever present. Along with criticizing white America for its treatment of minorities, Minhaj uncovers the complexity and hypocrisy within his own community. Such self-awareness is crucial for a productive dialog. Minhaj recounts his recent marriage. Fulfilling the nightmares of many Muslim parents, Minhaj married a Hindu woman. Although his family was initially supportive, his father soon regretted his endorsement. Hasan, his sister, and parents were outside his girlfriend’s home, where Hasan was going to propose, when his father got cold feet. He insisted that their extended family would forever look down upon the matrimony. It was not until his sister, Ayesha, interrupted her father that Hasan got the guts to disobey his father’s pleas to stop the proposal. The bigotry shown by an otherwise remarkable dad, who sacrificed immensely for his children, is a testament to the universality of discrimination. Furthermore, Minhaj is not afraid to admit when he, himself is on the wrong side of racially charged issues. Years after the prom fiasco, Minhaj met up with Bethany with anger still in his heart. Bethany told Minhaj how she was dating another Indian man, Raj, who she eventually married, despite her family’s collective protests. Minhaj was disgusted by his own inability to forgive someone who had obviously moved on in her life. Minhaj’s self-awareness prevents the special from becoming didactic and makes it even more powerful. More than anything, Homecoming King is funny. Since the Greeks, stereotypes have been the basis of many jokes. Minhaj is not above using racial stereotypes in his comedy. He embraces the characterization of Indian parents as solely focused on their children’s educational and financial success, at the expense of their emotional development. His father’s reluctance to let him simply talk to a girl resembles the typical South Asian father. Minhaj’s use of stereotypes shows how he is ready to have serious discussions about race, without being so blind as to deny the humor in harmless racism. This dichotomy is another example of Minhaj’s self-awareness. Through stories, style, hypocrisy, and stereotypes Minhaj crafts a special that highlights the devastating effects of discrimination and creates an honest depiction of life as an Indian-Muslim-American, while insisting that issues of identify are inferior to issues of humanity, that for better or for worse there is no emotion or feeling that is the exclusive property of any one group. I want to make it clear: there are most definitely times when accessibility to white audiences or appeals to the universality of life aren’t appropriate, especially in a time of such racial unrest. However, Minhaj should be commended for reminding us that love will always transcend creed, class, and color.