Megan Garber

Les Misérables is that rarest of things: a global phenomenon that gets political. The show—not just a musical but a megamusical; not just a drama but a melodrama—is an impassioned argument in the guise of an epic story. Like the Victor Hugo novel that inspired it, the musical rails against autocrats and the systems that elevate them. It resents injustice, inequality, and inhumanity. It does so loudly and extravagantly, and has no use for subtlety. Its gaudiest villain is a greedy innkeeper.

This week, the White House adviser Stephen Miller used an appearance on the Fox News Channel to criticize Fox News. Asked by the anchor John Roberts about Donald Trump’s plummeting poll numbers, Miller offered a testy reply: “I don’t want to make things awkward for you, John, but it is our opinion that Fox News needs to fire its pollster.”
The comment was classic political spin—when you don’t like the score, go after the refs.

In last night’s Saturday Night Live cold open, three teenage girls chatted over Signal. They gossiped (“Did you guys see what Jessica wore at school today? Oh my God, she is such a pick-me girl”). They teased one another (“Hey, it takes one to know one, Bannessa!”). They did what teenage girls do. And then:
“FYI: Green light on Yemen raid.”
Yep, SNL entered the Signalgate chat.

Some TV shows catch on because they are great art. Others catch on because they offer soothing distractions from a hectic world. And some catch on because they cause people to text their friends, in a frenzy, “Please watch this immediately because I NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH YOU!!!”
When I get texts like that, I almost always oblige: I will take any opportunity to be a good friend by watching bad TV.

In September, Secret Service agents apprehended a man carrying an AK-47-style gun near Donald Trump’s Palm Beach golf course—in an apparent attempt, the FBI concluded, to assassinate the former president. To some, the thwarted violence was a bleak testament to the times: one more reminder that politics, when approached as an endless war, will come with collateral damage. To Elon Musk, however, it was an opportunity.

Donald Trump has been held liable for rape. He has been accused, by more than 20 women, of sexual misconduct. He has denied each charge. He has also bragged about assaulting women and getting away with it.
One might assume, then, that he would prefer to avoid sexual violence as a campaign issue.

The post was sandwiched between a screed about capital-gains taxes and a video clip from a Donald Trump rally. Four words, all-caps: “I HATE TAYLOR SWIFT!”
Haters gonna hate (hate, hate, hate, hate), Taylor Swift has observed, and the claim has been validated, now, by an expert. Yesterday morning, Trump made his current feelings about Swift known on Truth Social—an extremely belated reaction, it would seem, to the pop star’s endorsement of Kamala Harris, issued last Tuesday evening.

Peter Pomerantsev, a contributor at The Atlantic and author of This Is Not Propaganda: Adventures in the War Against Reality, is an expert on the ways information can be manipulated. For this special episode, Megan talks with Peter about the role of propaganda in America and how to watch out for it.
Looking for more great audio from The Atlantic? Check out Autocracy in America, hosted by Peter Pomerantsev and staff writer Anne Applebaum. Subscribe wherever you listen.

Co-hosts Megan Garber and Andrea Valdez explore the web’s effects on our brains and how narrative, repetition, and even a focus on replaying memories can muddy our ability to separate fact from fiction.

In a sixth-season episode of Friends, members of the group make what they consider to be a horrifying discovery: Chandler Bing can’t cry. The revelation comes through a fluke (they’re watching E.T. and, confronted with the adorable alien, Chandler’s eyes stay dry). But the situation, as it so often does on Friends, quickly escalates. Before long, Joey is accusing his best friend of being “dead inside.” Monica is interrogating her husband, trawling for tears.

A car stopped at a red light, next to a line of people that snaked around the block. The kid in the passenger seat rolled down the window and shouted the obvious question: “What’s this for?” He got a quick reply, if not a full explanation: “It’s the mustard Skittles, man!”This week, to promote its new, limited-edition flavor—a collaboration with French’s mustard—Skittles turned candy into an event in downtown Washington, D.C.

Earlier this year, Google introduced a chat application powered by artificial intelligence—an experimental competitor to ChatGPT and a tool that it hoped, per its marketing copy, would “be a home for your creativity, productivity and curiosity.” Understanding that some potential users might be less sanguine about a technology that blurs the line between the augmentation of human intelligence and the obsolescence of it, Google gave its new bot a canny name: Bard.

Truman Burbank, the unwitting star of the world’s most popular TV show, is supposed to be an everyman. The Truman Show is set in an island town, Seahaven, that evokes the prefab conformities of American suburbia. Truman is a brand in a setting that is stridently generic. Since his birth, he has navigated a world manufactured—by Christof, the creator of his show—for lucrative inoffensiveness.

Ted Lasso, like an athlete meeting the moment, peaked at the right time. The show premiered during the waning months of Donald Trump’s presidency; against that backdrop, its positivity felt like catharsis, its soft morals a rebuke. Soon, Ted Lasso was winning fans and Emmys. Articles were heralding it as an answer to our ills. The accolades recognized the brilliance of a show that weaves Dickensian plots with postmodern wit. But they were also concessions. Kindness should not be radical.

Here’s one more piece of evidence that the ’90s have returned: Road rage is back in style. Stories of people who turned traffic frustrations into acts of violence were mainstays of that decade, rendered in news and in pop culture. A little bit true crime, a little bit morality tale, they captured the moment’s creeping suspicion that life was much less stable than it might have seemed.

The former president is fighting with the police. He’s yelling. He’s running. He’s resisting. Finally, he falls, that familiar sweep of hair the only thing rigid against the swirl of bodies that surround him.

After President Joe Biden delivered his State of the Union address last night, George Santos offered his appraisal of the proceedings. “SOTU category is: GASLIGHTING!” the representative pronounced in a tweet.The review was curious, coming as it did from a man who has fabricated much of his own biography.

On November 13, 2022, four students from the University of Idaho—Ethan Chapin, Kaylee Goncalves, Xana Kernodle, and Madison Mogen—were found dead in the house that the latter three rented near campus. Each had been stabbed, seemingly in bed. Two other students lived in the house, and were apparently in their rooms that night; they were unharmed.From the public’s standpoint, the case had few leads at first: an unknown assailant, an unknown motive.

Call it the First Law of Winter Viewing: The colder the weather, the stronger the urge to watch something warm.

Earlier this week, Merriam-Webster announced its 2022 word of the year: gaslighting. The dictionary’s selection of the term—defined as “the act or practice of grossly misleading someone, especially for one’s own advantage”—was in part a response to public demand: Searches for gaslighting rose by 1,740 percent over the past 12 months. That interest might reflect the fact that gaslighting describes so much, so efficiently.

“There were officers on the ground,” Caroline Edwards testified Thursday evening, during the first public hearing of the House Select Committee investigating the events of the January 6 insurrection. The Capitol Police officer was describing the violence she observed as she attempted to defend the building from the mob. She described her fellow officers, outnumbered and outmatched: “They were bleeding,” she said. “They were throwing up.

“There were officers on the ground,” Caroline Edwards testified Thursday evening, during the first public hearing of the House Select Committee investigating the events of the January 6 insurrection. The Capitol Police officer was describing the violence she observed as she attempted to defend the building from the mob. She described her fellow officers, outnumbered and outmatched: “They were bleeding,” she said. “They were throwing up.

The first time it happened, she said, she thought it was a joke. On the stand in her defamation trial a few weeks ago, the actor Amber Heard shared her account of the first time her now-ex-husband, Johnny Depp, allegedly hit her. She’d asked him about one of his tattoos: the one on his bicep (the one he’d famously had edited) that to her looked like a muddle of black ink. The tattoo spelled out wino, she said he told her.

Early in Knocked Up, Ben Stone (played by Seth Rogen) tells his friends that a one-night stand has ended in pregnancy. Ben’s friend Jonah (Jonah Hill) offers him advice on the matter. “It rhymes with shma-shmortion,” Jonah says. “I’m just saying … you should get a shma-shmortion at the shma-shmortion clinic.”Knocked Up is now 15 years old. It premiered in 2007, a product of raunch culture and one of its bards, the director Judd Apatow.

Last month, as Delta Flight 1580 made its way from Utah to Oregon, Michael Demarre approached one of the plane’s emergency-exit doors. He removed the door’s plastic covering, a federal report of the events alleges, and tugged at the handle that would release its hatch. A nearby flight attendant, realizing what he was doing, stopped him. Fellow passengers spent the rest of the flight watching him to ensure that he remained in his seat.

This article contains spoilers through the ninth episode of Yellowjackets Season 1.The Ouija board brands itself as a “mystifying oracle,” an ornately silk-screened conduit to the past and the future. I know it mostly from childhood sleepovers.

In 1973, before the series’ fourth season, the producers of The Mary Tyler Moore Show discussed the casting of a new character they were soon to introduce. Sue Ann Nivens, the host of the Happy Homemaker program on the fictional WJM-TV news station, would be cunning and cutting and a foil for her colleague Mary’s adamant optimism.

In 1973, before the series’ fourth season, the producers of The Mary Tyler Moore Show discussed the casting of a new character they were soon to introduce. Sue Ann Nivens, the host of the Happy Homemaker program on the fictional WJM-TV news station, would be cunning and cutting and a foil for her colleague Mary’s adamant optimism.

In 1988, Joan Didion joined a scrum of reporters on the tarmac of the San Diego airport to witness the writing of the first draft of history. The assembled journalists were trailing the Democratic presidential candidate Michael Dukakis. She was trailing the journalists. Didion watched as a baseball was procured, a staffer tossed the ball to the candidate, he tossed it back—and as the cameras dutifully captured the exchange.

Phylis Mitchell is a woman who is transformed, through the magic of the holidays, into a drill sergeant. Early on in The Christmas House, an already classic Hallmark rom-com, she enlists her husband and two adult sons in her mission to revive an old family tradition: creating the aggressively festive home that gives the movie its title. Phylis (played by Sharon Lawrence) devotes herself to the cause with comic zeal.