THENEWYORKER,AUGUST17, 2020 71
“the looming threat of alien invasion,”
while others propose that Texas secede
from the Union. (These two ideas may
well be connected.) Some of the kids
sound like budding Nazis, informing
us that citizens must be “disciplined yet
dangerous” or that “weak men simply
create chaos”—an oddly Nietzschean
note to strike, in this allegedly God-fear-
ing state. Budding, however, is hardly
the same as full-bloomed, and the film
never lets us forget that these are big
children, who are trying out dumb at-
titudes as if they were hair styles. It
would be great if McBaine and Moss,
taking their cue from Michael Apted,
whose “Up” documentaries have come
out every seven years since 1964, could
gather some of the participants from
“Boys State” at a later date and invite
them to review their junior selves.
I see this film as a soothing antidote
to our current fevers, in that it prevents
us from making up our minds too
staunchly or too fast. A libertarian soul
named Ben, for instance, begins by de-
riding the politics of gender, sexuality,
and disability; yet he is a double ampu-
tee, having lost his legs to meningitis at
the age of three. Not once during the
week does he request any sympathy for
his condition, let alone use it for advan-
tage. He even jokes about it. On the
other hand, he is the one kid onscreen
who, as voting draws near, resorts with-
out mercy (and with visible success) to
dirty tricks. “We need to do something
drastic that gets people talking,” he says.
“You have to use personal attacks.” Ben
is a remarkable fellow. He is also proof
that Trumpery will not end with Trump.
And so to Robert, who turns eigh-
teen in the course of the week. He’s a
ringer for the freshman hero of Rich-
ard Linklater’s “Everybody Wants
Some!!” (2016), and, indeed, “Boys State”
radiates some of the smiling tolerance
that Linklater—a godfather of the Aus-
tin movie scene—has brought to his
Texan dramas. No one is more dazed
and confused than Robert. Hearty, white,
and hellbent on West Point, he longs
to project a jockish self-possession, but
the surface cracks. In one extraordinary
sequence, he quietly confesses to being
pro-choice: “My stance on abortion
would not line up well with the guys
out there at all, so I chose to pick a new
stance. That’s politics.”
So, what has Robert acquired from
his days in Austin? “A new appreciation
for why politicians lie to get into office,”
he says. Whether you think the less of
him for fibbing, or the more of him for
being so honest about his dishonesty, he
becomes, on the spot, a more interest-
ing figure. Likewise, as Steven delivers
a typically expert pitch to the voters, the
camera catches Robert looking on with
undisguised admiration. His face is a
concession speech made flesh; you can
see him admitting to himself, and to us,
that this modest and stocky Latino kid,
who has had not an ounce of Robert’s
privilege, is in fact his superior, both
moral and rhetorical, and therefore de-
serves to win. On the strength of that
moment alone, the American Legion
should consider its job well done.F
or some people, I guess, the cele-
bration of democratic leadership in
“Boys State” will be a drag. Why be re-
sponsible when you can be gonzo? The
good news is that another documen-
tary, “Red Penguins,” is here to serveyour bedlam-loving needs. Commu-
nism, capitalism, corruption: the gang’s
all here. The director is Gabe Polsky,
and the title refers to a hockey team—
specifically, the former Red Army hockey
team, which, as the Soviet Union melted,
in the early nineteen-nineties, found it-
self drained of funds. Even the man-
ager, Valery Gushin, was at a loss. (In-
terviewed for the film, he unleashes a
grin that would scare a Siberian tiger.)
Salvation arrived in the shape of the
Pittsburgh Penguins, whose owners,
sniffing an opportunity, dared to invest
in their team’s Russian counterpart. A
marketing man, Steven Warshaw, was
sent to Moscow with orders to spruce
things up.
There was a lot of sprucing to do.
The sports arena was a rusty wreck. On
the ice, Warshaw recalls, “there were
medical doctors driving Zambonis, be-
cause they made more money driving a
Zamboni than doing surgery.” Un-
daunted, he launched the basic weap-
ons of his trade, such as advertising
boards and a cartoon logo, plus a few
bespoke local touches: a Yeltsin and Gor-
bachev look-alike contest, say, or live
bears serving drinks on the rink. (There
were also free-beer nights. For Russians.
Tough sell.) Sure enough, the fans came
flocking, and everything went well until
it didn’t—until, that is, the Muscovite
mafia demanded a slice of the Ameri-
can pie. Once Warshaw learned that the
price on his head was sixty-five hundred
bucks, he left town, and rightly so. I
mean, they couldn’t even make it seven
grand? What an insult. NEWYORKER.COM
Richard Brody blogs about movies.THE NEW YORKER IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF ADVANCE MAGAZINE PUBLISHERS INC. COPYRIGHT ©2020 CONDÉ NAST. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
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