It’s that time of year again: the glitz, the glamor, the gowns. Who will go home with a coveted statue, and who will go home empty-handed? This year’s Oscar-nominated films were particularly heartfelt and inspiring (or about as close as Hollywood can manage), and TAC’s culture critic Noah Millman has seen most of them. He can tell you which ones are worth watching—or rewatching:
Loosely based on the Abscam scandal, David O. Russell takes a crack at screwball dramedy, with mixed results. Millman writes: “Russell wants it both ways – he wants you to enjoy the Scorcesean roller-coaster even as at every turn he’s showing you that his real pleasure tilt-a-whirl. And it turns out you can’t quite have it both ways.”
12 Years a Slave
The film’s undiluted portrait of slavery that had audiences sobbing in the theater is nominated for Best Picture—and the two leads, Chiwetel Ejiofor and Michael Fassbender, are nominated for Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor, respectively. Lupita Nyongo is also nominated for Best Supporting Actress. Millman criticized director Steve McQueen for failing to end the film on a positive note: “McQueen doesn’t give us that uplifting twist… McQueen could have shown us a determined Northrup engaged in t[he] pursuit [of his captors], vowing never to rest, and ended his movie on an ‘up’ note. He chose not to.”
The genre-bending romantic drama of a man who falls in love with his operating system is a thought-provoking tale of humans’ dependency on their machines. Millman describes the film as “…a particularly clever Pygmalion story, one that is more attuned to what a modern man might actually want in a fantasy companion, as opposed to a mere sexual fantasy.”
Millman compares Alexander Payne’s newest film to his 2002 work “About Schmidt”, a rambling, dour film about an unhappy old man: “Payne’s new movie, ‘Nebraska,’ has a lot in common with ‘About Schmidt.’ Both are set primarily in Nebraska; both deal with elderly men who feel they have missed life somehow (and associate that missing out with having married June Squibb), and who go on a quixotic road trip in a roundabout way of trying to resolve their existential dilemmas.”
Critics have raved about the gorgeous cinematography and complained about the nail-biting twists and turns this film makes. Millman offers praise for the visual component of the film. “Enormous effort has been put into getting the physics right, and that effort pays off magnificently. The film is stunningly beautiful – more than that, it is sublime (to use the Burkean distinction).”
Based on a true story of a commercial ship hijacked by Somali pirates, Millman praises director Paul Greengrass’s ability to depart from the classic thriller structure to weave a more complex narrative: “The structure he’s chosen, which takes real risks in terms of pacing, allows him to draw that straight line between Captain Phillips’s resourcefulness and the might of the U.S. Navy, while also showing what, and who, lies on the other side of that line.”
Philomena and The Wolf of Wall Street
Rod Dreher doesn’t comprehensively review these two films, but sheds very important light on the religious and moral undertones of both films, bringing their messages into stark relief. Noah Millman in his Oscar post calls Philomena ”a sweet little film, well-written and well-structured.” He gives faint praise to “The Wolf of Wall Street” but claims too much time is given to the protagonist, who, in Millman’s estimation, ”just isn’t a very interesting person.”
The Dallas Buyers Club
While TAC did not review this film, the New Yorker’s review is more than apt, and appropriately highlights Matthew McConaughey’s transformation from romantic comedy beach bum to a serious dramatic actor.
The occasion of the 50th anniversary of the Beatles’ appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show has inspired some obligatory guffawing at those old squares who greeted the band with derision. One putdown that fairly stands out for its utter revulsion was from none other than William F. Buckley, who wrote in the Boston Globe in September 1964:
The Beatles are not merely awful; I would consider it sacrilegious to say anything less than that they are god awful. They are so unbelievably horribly, so appallingly unmusical, so dogmatically insensitive to the magic of the art that they qualify as crowned heads of anti-music, even as the imposter popes went down in history as “anti-popes.”
Without appearing willfully contrarian, I get where these critics were coming from, if only in a roundabout sort of way. I’m an enthusiast of early rock and all its British exponents, from both London and Liverpool; I appreciate and admire the Beatles just fine; etc. Yet at the end of the day I’m a Stones guy—and I can’t help but bristle when Beatlemaniacs diminish the Stones for their comparative lack of technical sophistication or proficiency. There is no end to my puzzlement at those who swear by the Beatles because of their proto-progressivity. Because here’s the thing: rock-and-roll really was retrogressive. Yes, even the Beatles.
Oh, I can just hear you out there. Look at George’s sweet jazz-guitar technique!
To which I can only respond, give me a freakin’ break.
George—a lovely player; in my opinion, the finest of the three Beatles guitarists—could never have hung with the likes of Barney Kessel, Herb Ellis, Les Paul, or Wes Montgomery, all of whose mastery of the guitar (in the 1950s!) far exceeded that of any rock-and-roller of the 1960s. This is to say nothing of Django or Charlie Christian.
For all the magic that the Beatles, with not a little help from the classically trained George Martin, created in the studio; for all their genius at crafting songs, there is not a chord or trope or motif of theirs that Cole Porter and George Gershwin would not have recognized. As Elijah Wald has noted, the Beatles did not so much push musical boundaries forward as they consolidated the earlier advances of other 20th century greats, from Louis Armstrong all the way to Tin Pan Alley. (I’m reminded of a bit of trivia I learned from Terry Teachout: the Beatles had mistakenly thought they were the first ones to end a tune on a 6th chord. Martin informed them that Glenn Miller already had.)
Again, don’t misunderstand: I’m a Beatles fan. I appreciate the unparalleled pop-cultural phenomenon that they were. But if I squint just a little, I find it easy to put myself in the shoes of someone who’d lived through hot jazz and hard bop, and who found the Beatles to be amateurish lightweights. In my own shoes, I would defend the Beatles without denying this fact. The amateurishness of rock music was a feature, not a bug. And it still is. If your passion for the Beatles stems from this outsize opinion of their technical competence, I regret to inform you, you’re doing it wrong.
If you couldn’t understand what your family was saying, would you understand them better or worse?
Nina Raines’s ”Tribes” opens with four Britons hurling abuse at each other around the kitchen table. I think it’s supposed to be funny, but it’s mostly just crass and painful: Mom, Dad, brother and sister describing one another’s passions, hopes, beliefs, and sex lives in the most contemptuous terms possible. The fifth member of the family is deaf and yeah, you do feel that perhaps he’s the lucky one.
As the play moves forward, the younger characters get shades and nuance. (The parents, and especially the cartoonishly self-centered father, remain pretty much the same.) Daniel (Richard Gallagher), the hearing son, shows flashes of haunted vulnerability which reveal a gulf of misery under cover of vituperation. The entire family has raised Billy (James Caverly, who starts off with a beatific smile which is clearly at least partly a mask or role) to read lips rather than to sign. They’ve developed an ideological resistance to anything which smacks of Deaf culture.
They genuinely believe they’re protecting Billy, but they’re also terrified of losing their beloved son and brother to a culture which can promise him a kind of belonging they can’t offer. When that masky smile finally slips and Billy says that they view him as the family mascot, the audience can tell that it’s not true: If anything, he’s the family conscience, the only one they allow to be good, the only one they’ll openly love. Of course, he’s also the only one they never need to listen to.
When the play begins, the family is all trapped together. The hearing children, Daniel and Ruth, have retreated to the family home after a series of romantic and professional defeats in the outside world. (“I feel like a bonsai tree!” Ruth yells, in a line which got big, empathetic laughs.) Billy never left, has never had a job or a girlfriend. One of the major themes of the play is the fact that belonging is rarely chosen; you don’t get to pick the elements which make up your identity, the ties which bind. You can try to leave—and seriously, Daniel at least should do everything in his power to get out of his parents’ house, because they’re actively damaging his psyche; this isn’t a play about the comforts of home—but you will eventually have to return, if only to give an account of yourself.
There are some terrific little moments (the play’s humor eventually does become actually funny), often involving how much impromptu “sign” this resolutely anti-sign-language family uses. There are tough, basically unanswerable questions about how language shapes us and separates us from others: As Billy’s new girlfriend goes deaf, she wonders if she’s losing the ability to understand nuances and ambiguities which can’t be expressed in sign. Read More…
What happens when an artist finds himself above reproach? Woody Allen, it would seem, finds himself in this rather fortunate position, even as new allegations about his conduct toward stepdaughter Dylan Farrow emerge. In a New York Times piece published Saturday, she described the sexual abuse Allen inflicted on her as a seven-year-old girl. She says the abuse has haunted her throughout her life: “Each time I saw my abuser’s face—on a poster, on a t-shirt, on television—I could only hide my panic until I found a place to be alone and fall apart.”
If any politician or pundit faced these accusations, one would hope they would lose their position, or at least be subjected to careful scrutiny and investigation. Yet in Allen’s case, many are willing to shrug off the immensity of the crime because of his great artistic talent. Rod Dreher wrote in a blogpost a few days ago, “I completely agree that Allen is a pig—if there were no Dylan Farrow accusations at all, his unrepented-of conduct with Soon-Yi Previn was enough to establish his swinishness—but that does not detract from his accomplishments as a filmmaker.”
Perhaps these allegations do not diminish Allen’s accomplishments. But even so, one must carefully consider the ethics of this position. Maureen Orth gathered substantive accusations in 1992 that supported claims of inappropriate behavior by Allen toward Dylan Farrow when she was little. Allen has denied all accusations, and continues to live without culpability. Does one continue to watch his movies, to view and enjoy his art? Andrew Sullivan thinks so, though he seems to believe Farrow is telling the truth:
Perhaps with less essential talents, the sins may more adequately define the artist. But that, in many ways, only makes the injustice worse. Those with the greatest gifts can get away with the greatest crimes.
We can and should rail against this, while surely also be realistically resigned to it. It struck me, for example, rather apposite that as the blogosphere is debating whether to boycott Woody Allen’s films in the future because of this horrifying story, exponentially more people are tuning into the Super Bowl to watch a game we now know will render many of its players mentally incapacitated in their middle ages and beyond. We know that this spectacle is based on the premise of brain damage for many of its participants, but we watch anyway.
This argument appears flawed and alarming to me for a couple simple reasons. First, the Super Bowl comparison does not hold, because tackle football’s dangers and horrors are all known to the athletes involved, and they engage in the sport voluntarily. If Peyton Manning’s concern over his future health and wellbeing ever trumped his desire to play football and make money, he could resign in a heartbeat. He plays football on his own prerogative, and he bears the consequences of his own actions. How do the choices of a 37-year-old man with power, fame, and athletic prowess compare to the involuntary and frightened oppression of a seven-year-old girl? Read More…
In a lovely piece at the Poetry Foundation, “Prioritizing Place,” Sandra Beasley ponders the rootedness (or roaming) of various poets. Does it help poets’ art to remain in one place? She writes:
Region need not monopolize your motifs. To paraphrase Molly Peacock when she talks about received forms, regionalism is not a box to cram your poems into; regionalism provides the bones that let the skeleton dance. Some geographic affiliations are involuntary, tied to childhood or marriage years. The poet may learn to love the unbeautiful, working through distaste toward deeper understanding of a community.
Yet at the same time, Beasley’s piece looks at region as the clay, and poet as the model. She quotes Richard Hugo, a poet of the Pacific Northwest, who once told a pupil, “Everybody’s a regional poet to some extent, but the region from which you write is merely the lens. The real region is you.”
Contrast this with the attitude of poet Wendell Berry, whose work seems to suggest that place is the shaper, and we are its clay. His works all center in an around a singly community which, in its tangled and sundry doings, created a rhythm of human relationship. Driving roots into community, living amongst others with constancy, is something different than living within region as mere lens.
Berry’s poetic living requires love: love for land, and for people. Without this love, it is very easy to escape into other territory—whether it be physical roaming, or an inner withdrawal. There is nothing to suggest in Beasley’s piece that place has a sort of authoritative cadence or order by which its inhabitants live. She writes of towns that have “been made great largely by its fixed stars, their immediate gaze and winking light.”
This is where Phillip Jensen’s excellent insights at Cardus come in. This farmer writes of the “liturgy” inherent in creation, the rhythm and song embedded within the very fabric of the universe. By farming and building a relationship with the land, he writes, he has found himself more fully “in tune” with this song: “This liturgy of creation has been sung since the beginning but is today in need of formal recognition and articulation because our lives have become so distant from its song.”
The poet should always be looking for the rhythm, the cadence undergirding common life. This, Jensen suggests, is something that can be found—not exclusively, but with greater depth—in and about creation. His suggestions in the article (to explore wilderness, work the land, wonder in creation, and worship through liturgy) should, in this sense, be useful to any writer or poet.
One thinks of King David, the famous “warrior poet” whose poetry often revolved around creation and its awe-inspiring beauty—“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?” he wrote in Psalm 8:2-4.
The city, notes Jensen, has beauties and rhythms of its own. However, he adds a worthy note of caution to the urban dweller: “…The separation that city life, when unbalanced, can engender between our lives and creation, coupled with an insidious utilitarianism, means that we rarely hear the song and when we do we think the song is about us.”
This seems to be the pitfall of Beasley’s piece: she has heard the song, or at least a few notes of it, but seems to think this song is stemming from listeners—when in fact, they are merely channeling its presence.
Was Dostoyevsky right when he said, “Beauty will save the world”? One of my favorite pieces on the subject came from Jeffrey Bilbro at Front Porch Republic this fall. Bilbro referenced Solzhenitsyn’s opinion on the subject, as stated in a Nobel Lecture:
…Perhaps that ancient trinity of Truth, Goodness and Beauty is not simply an empty, faded formula as we thought in the days of our self-confident, materialistic youth? If the tops of these three trees converge, as the scholars maintained, but the too blatant, too direct stems of Truth and Goodness are crushed, cut down, not allowed through – then perhaps the fantastic, unpredictable, unexpected stems of Beauty will push through and soar TO THAT VERY SAME PLACE, and in so doing will fulfill the work of all three?
There is a problem—partly addressed by Bilbro, and holistically addressed by Robert Royal in a post at The Catholic Thing last Monday, that must be noted: namely, beauty often serves more as an illusory temptress than as a guide to the divine. How do we distinguish between illuminating beauty and a false, hollow sort? Royal explains with a passage from Dante’s Purgatorio, when Dante dreams of a beautiful woman:
She ‘gan to sing so, that with difficulty
Could I have turned my thoughts away from her.
“I am,” she sang, “I am the Siren sweet
Who mariners amid the main unman,
So full am I of pleasantness to hear.
I drew Ulysses from his wandering way
Unto my song, and he who dwells with me
Seldom departs so wholly I content him.”
Her mouth was not yet closed again, before
Appeared a Lady saintly and alert
Close at my side to put her to confusion.
“Virgilius, O Virgilius! who is this?”
Sternly she said; and he was drawing near
With eyes still fixed upon that modest one.
She seized the other and in front laid open,
Rending her garments, and her belly showed me;
This waked me with the stench that issued from it.
It’s a poignant passage, and leads us to Royal’s vital question: “When is what appears beautiful a reflection of the divine—and when is it a Siren’s song?”
This reminded me of Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray. The novel’s protagonist is a handsome young man who makes “beauty” his goal and end in life—and ultimately destroys his life through this search. The novel is full of rich pictorial imagery, but Wilde’s descriptions of nature and people seem purposefully transient. The beauty depicted is of a temporal sort, never referencing a higher, deeper, or truer meaning. Beauty is more “pleasing” than “good.” One notable exception would be the young, tragic Sibyl Vane, whose goodness and beauty are inextricably linked (and in the end, constitute her downfall). Gray could not tell the difference between a pleasurable beauty and “good” beauty. How can we differentiate between the two?
Both Bilbro and Royal believe our society has a picture of beauty that’s either reductive or deceptive. Bilbro writes, “Currently, our cultural aesthetic is, in Solzhenitsyn’s terms, sickly and pale: we too often confuse the pretty, the mere appearance, for true beauty, hence our acceptance of lush green lawns that cause water pollution … We have to be able to see the whole to perceive beauty (again, note the connection between beauty and health). Analysis of the beautiful, if it does not begin with a vision of the whole and keep this vision constantly in mind, quickly devolves into an abstract rummaging through dead parts.” This idea of reduced beauty gives us the sense that something has been lost in our searching—that whatever beauty constitutes, it is something richer and deeper than most modern definitions. Read More…
Julia Child offers this advice in her book My Life in France: “Learn how to cook—try new recipes, learn from your mistakes, be fearless, and above all have fun!” Many people create resolutions at the beginning of the new year—often of a fitness or diet-related nature. But cooking is more than merely a means to a slimmer persona. At its finest, cooking is art, and—as Child put it—it’s fun.
One of modern technology’s greatest benefits lies in its educational capability. For the aspiring cook, these learning possibilities are nearly endless. While one can easily learn tricks of the trade from admirable sources like Bon Appétit, Cooks Illustrated, and other cooking magazines, we also have a new source of inspiration in food bloggers: a group of people whose chronicles and recipes are more personal than magazine articles, and offer us a variety we can’t get elsewhere.
After following a plethora of interesting food bloggers over the course of 2013, I have created a list of my ten favorites. Hopefully these writers and recipes will inspire some this year: to cook (or bake) something new, to host a dinner party, perhaps even to try an ingredient long banished from your shelf. Most of all, I hope they inspire you to enjoy your kitchen throughout the year.
#1. Food52 Blog
In all honesty, Food52 is more than just a food blog. The website, replete with cooking resources and recipes, is more of a meeting place for amateur and professional cooks alike. Their blog features a variety of guest bloggers and writers, and their columns add spice and wisdom to excellent recipes. It’s an invaluable resource, and the blog is updated daily (often multiple times). Some favorite recipes tried recently: cardamom snickerdoodles, maple chipotle sweet potatoes, and their pumpkin cinnamon rolls.
#2. Smitten Kitchen
Deb Perlman is a cook with very diverse and useful recipes. Whether looking for a classic gingerbread recipe or chili inspiration, she often has what I need. Her writing style is also fun and humorous. I love her fig, olive oil, and sea salt challah (perfect for Easter dinner) and her dry-rub oven chicken.
#3. Local Milk
Beth Kirby is a locavore, photographer, and storyteller (as well as an excellent cook). Her recipes take Tennessee cooking—with all its lard and okra—and gives it a modern twist. Some of my favorite recipes include her hand pies (muscadine rose and blueberry, basil, and goat cheese) and sweet potato gnocchi.
#4. David Lebovitz
Lebovitz’s blog is an essential resource for the inquisitive cook. He has written six cooking books, and blogs from Paris, often sharing insights into its restaurants, cooking, and atmosphere. This whole wheat croissant recipe is on my to-make list for the month—and you have to try his shakshuka.
#5. Love and Lemons
For those who desire a more health-focused blog, this is a great resource. Bloggers Jack and Jeanine share mouthwatering, “veggie-centric” foods (though neither of them avoid meats entirely). Their recipes are fresh and colorful, and make healthy eating inspiring. Their salads are wonderful.
There are countless other worthy blogs I could mention. Those with a passion for baking must visit Joy the Baker‘s blog. But at some point, we must stop looking at the pictures and recipes, stop saying, “I wish I could make something like that,” and pull out the flour and spices. Many of these food bloggers are not professional cooks. Many are mothers, writers, and food-lovers who simply decided to try something new. This is, perhaps, the reason they can inspire us most.
Rene Magritte made so ridiculously many paintings that creating a manageable exhibit on his work requires some kind of exclusionary mechanism. The Museum of Modern Art has chosen to carve him up chronologically, giving a time-slice of his work from 1926 to 1938. This period includes Magritte’s most evocative and haunting works–but also a raft of punny schlock.
Of course, the popular Magritte is often the punny Magritte (yes, you can see the famous not-a-pipe at the MOMA show); and the horror-laced, otherworldly Magritte was often the result of finding just the right, resonant punchline for an existential joke.
Magritte is a horror artist in part because he has such an up-front sense of humor: Both the horror and the humor are about incongruities and displacement. The one with the giant egg in a cage is almost the same joke as the one with the tattered boots turning into feet, and it may be only a matter of personal taste that I find the cage-egg shticky and formulaic whereas the grimy, fleshy boot-feet are troubling and sad. The opening wall caption notes his self-proclaimed ambition to make “everyday objects shriek aloud,” which reminds me of the Jack Handey line about the screaming trees. Lots of Magritte’s work has this funny-creepy edge: the eye in the pancake; the cute doughy-faced moppet in lace collar and cuffs, eating a bird.
Some of my own favorites are in this show. 1927′s “The secret double,” a woman with a strip ripped or broken off of her face, revealing mysterious gray sleigh bells on ropy stalks, is an extraordinary image of the unknowable consciousness hidden behind an ordinary face. Magritte at his best often creates a hushed atmosphere, like a velvet curtain coming down over the mind–curtains appear at the edges of many of his dreamscape works. “Entr’acte,” with its bizarrely connected limbs stretching and holding one another, and “The muscles of the sky,” in which sharply defined blue-gray coils of sky spill out onto a wooden platform, never become less striking for me. Looking at them, and at “The Finery of the Storm” with its person-sized snowflakey paper cutouts ranged in front of a turbulent sea, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of an abyss: quiet, held in suspense, full of surprises.
Magritte has a lot of recurring tricks, and I love most of them: all that sky-blue, and the occasional judicious use of creepy salmon pink; the touchable textures, furry or grainy or polished; the vaguely human “bilboquets” and Martian-ship sleigh bells. He can evoke fairy tales, as in “The Healer,” and his illustrations of the fraught interactions of men and women are phenomenal: “The titanic days” and “The rape” for violence against women, but also “The lovers” for a mysterious, teasing sexiness. (The sheets covering their heads don’t only hide them from one another, but also suggest smooth, sensual textures and, of course, bed.)
His word trick I don’t love. This is the thing where he paints some melty, curvy object, and then sticks an unrelated word into it; or he paints e.g. a fire and labels it “l’oiseau.” One of these is interesting. Two or three: Okay, he needs to get something out of his system. Ten? Ten is too many. Some of them have enough sensuality in the shapes and textures to get me past the one-trick pony of it all, but most of them seem like paintings you “get” rather than paintings you’re absorbed by. And the MOMA show includes a lot of them.
In all other respects the show is thoughtful. Not too many captions (some of which have a dry humor: “Le Chant de l’orage is the second of three paintings Magritte produced in response to what he saw as the problem of rain”), a nice winding path in which every work gets enough space to capture the viewer, and some fun photographs of Magritte and his paintings, including one where he mimics the crime-fiction villain Fantomas. The show runs through January 12, 2014.
In decadent Rome, an aging art critic rides the success of his one, long-ago novel, and wonders if there’s more to life than having the best conga line in the Eternal City. He watches young nuns playing in a hedge maze, drifts into and through relationships with damaged women, and does a lot of eloquent smoking.
The Great Beauty, Paolo Sorrentino’s update of/homage to La Dolce Vita, offers a lot of expected pleasures. Our antihero, Jep Gambarella (Toni Servillo), sometimes seems to be genuinely having fun, and at those points I tended to have fun right along with him. The camera swoons and swoops. The art and landscape of Rome look glorious–the many different, clashing landscapes, nuns scuttling past a satyr, neon lights and ancient stones. The satire of terrible performance art probably goes on too long (I would’ve cut the on-the-nose sequence with the man whose father photographed him every day of his life, and the knife thrower) but it ranges from acidic to surprisingly thought-provoking, disturbing, and nuanced.
Jep is a critic in the worst way: somebody who makes his living off of art. It’s a job which breeds cynicism. And Rome is famously a city of cynics.
But somewhere around the three-quarters point of the movie, something unexpected occurs. “The Saint” comes to Rome from Africa. This tiny old lady is a Mother Teresa caricature, surrounded by sycophants and bandwagoners, sitting propped up at the dinner table practically drooling, looking like humid death.
Now that the shutdown is over, I can tell you about a small but punchy photography exhibit at the Sackler.
“Sense of Place,” which runs through November 11, disrupts many of the cliches of East vs. West. In these tired oppositions, Europe is a clash of swords and horses; China, Japan, or any other part of the undifferentiated East is a lone monk crossing a quiet pond. The West is the land of change and history, the East is the land where life is as fleeting and yet eternal as the seasons.
Well, there is a lone man crossing a quiet pond in “Sense of Place.” Hai Bo’s image is gentle, sad and misty, as a bridge arches in graceful curves over the placid water. But this is only the first in a series of three images. The bridge is destroyed. The man is left wandering in a foggy forest, and then abandoned among concrete structures under a blank white sky. In just three photographs we’ve entered the modern world: a world of industrialization and rapid change. Despite the exhibit’s title, time rather than place is the major theme of the small show—it takes up only two rooms—and the emphasis is on the aftermath of distinctly twentieth-century destruction in China, Japan, Iran, and Vietnam.