john travolta's ode to the beret
and a few thoughts on recent tv series
I read somewhere that we’re not using the word whimsy anymore. Overplayed, it seems. And you know what, I get it, there comes a point and all that, but what, then, am I supposed to call John Travolta wearing not one, not two, not three, but four different colored berets on the Cannes red carpet? Tell me what this is, if not whimsical?
When the subject of John Travolta pops into my head, in a frequency that is surprisingly not never, here is the breakdown of what I think, in this exact order: long-time Scientologist (see also: does he know Elisabeth Moss?), bald because of Pitbull (see also: has Pitbull ever googled Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard?), and flies planes semi-professionally (see also: do he and fellow Scientologist Tom Cruise discuss aviation and plastic surgery together?).
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(I am so sorry for this but I desperately need you to indulge me in a Brief But Very Important Tangent because while doing my own googling, which I’ve apparently been slacking on, I found out that in the late 1970s, several high-ranking members of the Church of Scientology (including Mrs. L. Ron Hubbard) were indicted on grounds of espionage against the U.S. government, just a few short years after the Scientology founder and his minions were caught plotting to—I’m so serious—take over the town of Clearwater, Florida. Unrelatedly, I’m sure, Travolta’s $100 million residence is located in Ocala (horse capital of the world, baby!), a Floridian metropolis a mere two-hour drive from Clearwater. The twists and turns of this story have kept me up at night. Thank God for science fiction writers turned alleged cult leaders hiding in the California desert until their mysterious deaths.)
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But back to the berets. Person Who Shows Up At Cannes With Fits Worth At Least Three Watercooler Conversations is not one of the categories within which I’d classified John Travolta. He’s not Bella Hadid. Like, I just checked his IMDb and the most recent thing I’ve seen him in was the unfortunately-excellent O.J. season of American Crime Story, much as it pains me to ever compliment Ryan Murphy.1
(A second brief but very important tangent has hit the newsletter because once a month, I kid you not, I think of David Schwimmer as Robert Kardashian mournfully and repeatedly and disappointedly saying, “Juice …” to Cuba Gooding Jr. as O.J. Simpson. A career-best from Schwimmer.
I was going to bury this one in a footnote but the compilation video—I think we all needed to see it.)
Back again. Unexpected, no, to wake up on a Monday morning to images of John Travolta in berets? But who am I to forsake a bit of secondhand joie de vivre? Such a thing would be foolish of me, and lately I’ve been trying my best to, quite specifically, not be a fool.
Which means that when I see a 72-year-old man at Cannes wearing an outfit almost uncomfortably reminiscent of my outfit, donned in 2018 at Versailles, itself inspired by Audrey Hepburn’s Paris outfit in Funny Face2 … well! Life is hard, and I’m gonna take this moment as a GIFT is what I’m gonna do.
Which obviously leads me to:
Anyway. Shoutout to whimsy. Travolta said his ode to the French pseudo-intellectual (I say this with love) was actually an homage to the “old school directors [who] wore berets and the glasses.” 100%, man. For sure.
I’ve been watching too much television but it’s quality stuff
I finished watching the Apple TV+ series adaptation of Rufi Thorpe’s gorgeous novel Margo’s Got Money Troubles (2026) and I think it might be my favorite book-to-series adaptation since Normal People? No spoilers, but—if I’m remembering the book correctly—they seem to have excluded just one major plot point, and while it worked very well in the novel, I don’t think its exclusion actually weakens the series. It’s also one of the best-cast productions I’ve seen in years … Elle Fanning carries it exquisitely, but I was particularly delighted by Michelle Pfeiffer and Nick Offerman’s turns as Margo’s parents. If no one’s got me, I know David E. Kelley’s got me.3
Before that, I’d watched Los Años Nuevos (2025), a series that had been sold to me as the Spanish response to Normal People (accidentally sticking to a certain theme today, it appears). It’s a love story—I guess—told over the course of ten episodes and ten years, each of which takes place on a different New Year’s Eve. Ana and Oscar are 30 when they meet in the first episode, and the comings and goings of their lives and relationship(s) and heartbreaks and joys over the next decade … well, folks, it wrecked me a little! I was spiraling between may this love never find me and may this love find me immediately. A perfect show to watch on a lazy Sunday if you’re gonna be depressed anyway.
I’ve also been keeping up with Widow’s Bay (2026), which Apple TV classifies as a comedy-horror series (why not)—it’s good, and I’m not just saying that because after The Americans, I’d quietly follow Matthew Rhys to the ends of the earth.
And lastly! Last night I finished Hal & Harper (2025), a limited series starring Cooper Raiff, Lili Reinhart, Betty Gilpin, and Mark Ruffalo, and I had a great time. Like, I definitely cried every other episode watching these two deeply codependent twenty-something siblings try to figure out their lives, but I had a great time. The series is tonally similar to the Dakota Johnson vehicle Cha Cha Real Smooth (2022), which Raiff also wrote/directed/created. A real Marc by Marc Jacobs situation we’ve got going with this guy, but it’s fine, it more or less works. He wields a sort of earnest and self-deprecating millennial humor that may not work for everyone, but Hal and Harper is slightly less self-indulgent than Cha Cha, mostly because Raiff gives his co-stars more time to shine and I, for one, believe Reinhart continues to be severely underrated.4
I hate to bring up Sally Rooney again, but if your favorite part of Intermezzo was the sibling relationship between Ivan and Peter, then you kinda need to watch Hal & Harper.
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P.S. I’m working on a summer book guide of sorts inspired by my favorite disassociation setting: the beach. Fair warning, what makes a beach read for me is portability, which does not necessarily align with literary levity. Like, Kafka wrote short novels. I won’t let myself get overtaken by existentialist reads, and we all know that I do not scoff at romance novels, but … far be it from me to mislead anyone. Steinbeck will be on the summer book guide.
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Last week, Spotify helpfully revealed to me that the first track I ever listened to on the streamer was a Glee Cast song. And not even a good one. If God ever sees fit to ship a lightning strike my way, I’ll understand.
Oh please, like you’re surprised!
We will not talk about his adaptation of Nine Perfect Strangers. It never happened.
Much like her fellow Riverdale alums Camila Mendes and Charles Melton.