Did I want a selfie? Javier Milei, the President of Argentina, was offering. So many of his supporters wanted them; the Internet is full of pictures of him with ecstatic fans, regional leaders, and such international fellow-travellers as Elon Musk. In his office, he adopted his customary pose, his face angled toward the good light, his lips pursed, two jaunty thumbs up. The stance seemed naggingly familiar, and then I realized that it recalled the psychotic character Alex from Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange." "Naranja Mecánica?" I asked. Milei's eyes sparkled, and he nodded, cackling, then obligingly resumed the pose.
For Milei, a self-described "anarchocapitalist" determined to remake his country, this punkish presentation is not incidental to his success. His supporters refer to him as the Madman and as the Wig a reference to his hairdo, an unkempt shag with disco sideburns. Milei has said that his hair is styled by the "invisible hand" of the market, but, during my visit, his stylist, Lilia Lemoine, stopped in to adjust it. "She wants me to look like a cross between Elvis and Wolverine," he said. (Lemoine, who had recently been elected as a legislator with Milei's party, was formerly a cosplayer, a special-effects producer, and, for a time, Milei's girlfriend.)
Milei, who is fifty-four, came late to politics. Before he won a seat in Congress, in 2021, he was a low-profile economist, and then a frequent guest on talk shows, famous for explosive denunciations of the government. Argentina, after a century of economic struggles, was in crisis. As Milei campaigned for President, the inflation rate climbed to more than two hundred per cent, and roughly forty per cent of the population was living in poverty. Milei earned a following by blaming the trouble on a corrupt caste la casta that included politicians, journalists, trade unionists, and academics.
Denne historien er fra December 09, 2024-utgaven av The New Yorker.
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Denne historien er fra December 09, 2024-utgaven av The New Yorker.
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THE ST. ALWYNN GIRLS AT SEA SHEILA HETI
There was a general sadness that day on the ship. Dani was walking listlessly from cabin to cabin, delivering little paper flyers announcing the talent show at the end of the month. She had made them the previous week; then had come news that the boys' ship would not be attending. It almost wasn't worth handing out flyers at all—almost as if the show had been cancelled. The boys' ship had changed course; it was now going to be near Gibraltar on the night of the performance—nowhere near where their ship would be, in the middle of the North Atlantic sea. Every girl in school had already heard Dani sing and knew that her voice was strong and good. The important thing was for Sebastien to know. Now Sebastien would never know, and it might be months before she would see him again—if she ever would see him again. All she had to look forward to now were his letters, and they were only delivered once a week, and no matter how closely Dani examined them, she could never have perfect confidence that he loved her, because of all his mentions of a girlfriend back home.
WHEELS UP
Can the U.K.’s Foreign Secretary negotiate a course between the E.U. and President Trump?
A CRITIC AT LARGE - CHECK THIS OUT
If you think apps and social media are ruining our ability to concentrate, you haven't been paying attention.
PARTY FAVORS
Perle Mesta and the golden age of the Washington hostess.
CHARLOTTE'S PLACE
Living with the ghost of a cinéma-vérité pioneer.
THE CURRENT CINEMA - GHOST'S-EYE VIEW
“Presence.”
MILLENNIALS: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
Fame is fickle, and no one knows this better than millennials. Once, they were everywhere—in television laugh tracks for “The Big Bang Theory,” in breathless think pieces about social-media narcissism, and acting the fool in 360p YouTube comedy videos. Then—poof! Gone like yesterday’s avocado toast.
ANNALS OF INQUIRY: CHASING A DREAM
What insomniacs know.
THE MASTER BUILDER
Norman Foster's empire of image control.
INTIMATE PROJECTS DEPT. THE GOLDFISH BOWL
There are roughly eight hundred galleries that hold the permanent collection of the Met, and as of a recent Tuesday morning the married writers Dan and Becky Okrent had examined every piece in all but two.