Earnesty…

… is maybe something we should be taking more seriously.

From Friday, February 21 to Tuesday, February 25, I didn’t check social media. This is a big deal for me; I am addicted to information, to the feeling of being “in the know” I get from the constant stimulation of my Instagram and Twitter feeds. I allowed myself YouTube and Pinterest, since those don’t typically fuel the fire I was trying to fight while my thesis remained in a relatively incomplete state.

YouTube was what let me know that Timothée Chalamet had won his first Best Actor award for A Complete Unknown, after being beaten out, again and again, by Adrien Brody and his work on The Brutalist. I wish I could stop writing about Chalamet, but as we know, the algorithm works by amplifying and exaggerating present interests. I clicked on the short video as soon as I realized what it was. I recognized the outfit, too, a full-leather getup inspired by one of Dylan’s late Oughts ‘fits. He was in head-to-toe Chrome Hearts with a Cartier designed bolo tie. I’m too short to pull it off.

After hugging his mother and his cast members, walking to the stage, and failing to adjust the too-short microphone stand, Chalamet began his speech. He first thanks his mother, a forty year employee of Actor’s Equity, the stage and theater labor union, to much applause. “And I’ll quickly run through this,” he follows. “I know the classiest thing would be to downplay the effort that went into this role … I poured everything I had into playing this incomparable artist, Mr. Bob Dylan, … and it was the honor of a lifetime playing him.” This was a relatively standard expression of gratitude, honest in the way that pre-written speeches delivered by actors tend to be. This also garnered applause. Then, he admits to the often tired-nature of the biopic genre. Strange, but appreciated. Now we as film lovers know that actors hear and agree with our complaints — no more biopics please! –so there must be something else driving their production. Money, of course, but maybe something that cannot be understood by someone not trying to make it in the stingy, often tasteless world of Hollywood.

The next section of his speech initially repulsed me, as it touched one of my biggest pet peeves and superstitions. “And lastly,” he says, “I cannot downplay the significance of this award, ’cause it means the most to me. And I know we’re in a subjective business.” (Chalamet pauses, perhaps slightly afraid to take the step he wants to make). “But the truth is, I’m really in pursuit of greatness, I know people don’t usually talk like that but I’m inspired by the greats … And I want to be up there, so I’m deeply grateful to that. This,” he grabs the turquoise statuette, “doesn’t signify that, but it’s a little more fuel it’s a little more ammo to keep going. Thank you so much.” He exits.

I got a little bit embarrassed, and wanted to reach through the screen, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him a little bit. I deeply believe, and I am unsure of the origins of this belief, that great ambition should be kept to oneself for as long as possible. If possible, it should be hidden even from oneself. It should remain a voice loud, but suppressed, quietly guiding each decision and action. It should not be so obvious to be stated, and thus set in stone, so that setbacks and detours will not perceived as such. It is not hubris or a lack of humility that bothers me, it’s the calcification of aspiration that occurs when your brain plays that trick which convinces you that you’ve done something just because you said you’re going to do it. Many college papers of mine have suffered this fate. I tend to talk too much. I cannot bear to vocalize my intentions myself, and it makes me deeply uncomfortable when other people do so. What if it doesn’t happen? What if you don’t live up to the mark you advertised that you had for yourself?

My mind has been changed over the past thirty six hours. I cannot stop thinking about this speech, it’s eating away at me, and not because I do not still hold the above superstition. Isn’t it amazing and endearing and brave when someone tells you something they actually want? Not something that seems like a logical next step, following from what they’re doing now, but something crazy that feels like a secret and requires some serious faith and risk. It is a risk to desire and even more of a risk to express that desire. I am often uncomfortable with expressions of desire. That is part of the reason why I avoid watching people I know sing. I cannot erase the vivid image of the singer’s suppressed ambition, of a desire for fame and fortune, especially when I am confident they would never admit that they harbor that wish.

A noted hip-hop fan himself, Chalamet gave a speech unconventional for the stereotypically quaint, humble actor, but not so for rappers and musicians. Maybe you picture him as Outkast at the 1995 Source Awards winning “Best New Artist,” telling the booing audience, deep in the East vs. West conflict, that “the South got something to say, that’s all I got to say.” Maybe you picture the twenty-nine year old actor in an all-white suit à la Kanye West winning “Best Rap Album” at the Grammys for “The College Dropout,” talking about death and the necessity of celebrating success while he still has the chance. “Everybody wanted to know what I’d do if I didn’t win,” so goes the now infamous, over-sampled end of this speech, “I guess we’ll never know.” (I like the new Doechii song, “Nosebleeds,” that samples this, by the way).

I happened to listen to Nick Drake’s “Fruit Tree” for the first time yesterday morning, and it made me think of Chalamet’s speech. The refrain goes like this:

Fame is but a fruit tree
So very unsound
It can never flourish
‘Til its stock is in the ground
So men of fame
Can never find a way
‘Til time has flown
Far from their dying day

Drake himself suffered this fate. He put his art out into the world, ended his life, and a 2000 Volkswagen ad released twenty-five years later propelled him to stardom. Eerily predicting the nature of his own posthumous success, Nick Drake laments the fate all too many talented people face. Chalamet refuses a similar death in his earnestness, hoping that even if he dies young, people will know what he wanted, and that he tried his very best. Making art is a matter of life or death, and he’d rather feel that fact acknowledged while he’s still around.

Here’s to less writing about shablagoo. Send me your Oscar ballots.