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This is Fresh Air.
I'm Terry Gross.
Our guest today is the Syrian photojournalist Lubna Mirai.
She first joined the Syrian revolution as an act of rebellion against her father.
Before we meet her, it's my pleasure to introduce our guest interviewer, Arthi Shahani.
She's a former NPR tech reporter.
You may have also heard her interviews on her podcast, Art of Power on, or read her migrant memoir, which is about fighting ICE to protect her father.
It's called Here We Are.
Now that I've introduced Arthie, here she is with Lubna Mirai.
Fifteen years ago, the country Syria joined the Arab Spring.
Lubna Mirai became part of this movement, first as a casual protester and, over time, as a photojournalist who documented the attacks and killings that the government claimed never happened.
She was unlike the majority of protesters in a key way.
She is Alawite, the religious minority that ruled the country.
Lubna didn't consider herself political at first, but she did deeply resent her father.
He came from a poor Alawite family and made his money by allegedly being an assassin for the father of Bashar al-Assad.
When daughter defied father, he punished her for it horrifically.
The Syrian civil war lasted far longer than Lubna Mirai ever expected.
The estimated death toll is more than 650,000.
Another 100,000 people have been forcibly disappeared.
And more than 13 million Syrians remain displaced.
Syria had 22 million people at the start of the civil war, so that's more than half of the population.
Lubna Mirai's new book is called Defiance, a memoir of awakening, rebellion, and survival in Syria.
Two parts in particular really got under my skin.
First, the toxic family dynamics that honestly feel wincingly familiar to me and probably to many of you listening.
And then the less familiar part, she documents how her country fell apart.
That's something a lot of us feel increasing anxiety around.
Lubna Mirai, welcome to Fresh Air.
Thank you.
Both of your parents are Alawite, a minority in Syria, a bit more than 10 of the population, and the same religion as the ruler at the time, Hafez al-Assad.
And your mom's mom does not approve of your parents' marriage, even though they're both Alawite.
Tell us about how your parents met and why grandma didn't like it.
So my parents met at the funeral of my grandfather, my mother's father, who was a big figure in her life.
My grandfather was, he was a consulate in Turkey, in Brazil, in Germany.
And he loved my mother so much.
And he always told her, that her future depends on education.
It does not depend on marriage.
And he truly wanted my mother to seek education like all her siblings.
And my mother was very... She loved her father so much.
And my father...
My father comes from a family that did not have the privilege to go to school, to go to college, and they were involved in some dirty business for the Syrian government.
And my grandfather was aware of that.
So my grandmother was also aware of that.
And my grandmother was very clear with my mom that if this marriage goes south, you will be bearing the consequences on your own.
And did your mom ever tell you about why she fell for your dad?
Did she say it in her own words?
Throughout my childhood, my father was very, very, very abusive.
But there was always this side of him that was very charming and very loving, that my mother really wanted us to see.
And I think that's why my mother was really keen on keeping my father into our lives, me and my sister despite all the abuse that he was showing her and us.
Can I speak about the memoir a little bit?
Of course, yeah.
I thought we were doing that, but tell me what you mean.
Okay, okay, okay.
No, no, no.
Because like...
Like trying to figure out those sides of my father and trying to remember my childhood without being tinted with so much pain and grief was one of the most difficult aspects of writing this book.
Because memoirs, especially memoirs that are filled with pain and grief.
They are very difficult to write, because you really need to write about people with love and nuance, and write with love even about the people that you hate and despise the most.
And pain tempts us, pain and anger tempts us to see things in absolutes.
To flatten people into heroes and villains.
And when you do that, you risk leaving parts of the truth out.
And this is not fair for them and it's not fair for the reader.
I loved how I was being treated when someone asked me about my full name and I mentioned my father.
It was all painful and kind of shameful to admit that, especially after all what my father did later on in my life.
But although as a daughter, I despised him as an author and as someone writing this memoir, it felt like I had the responsibility towards him to show all sides of him, even the sides that I don't want to remember anymore.
When you were born, your dad told your mom, I want to name this baby after my mistress.
Yeah.
So my father had lots of mistresses before my birth and during my mother's pregnancy and even after.
And that...
In that society it was very normalized for a guy to have mistresses because, as the say was, nothing disgraces a man except his pocket.
So as long as the guy was taking care of his family financially, he can do whatever he wants.
And that was not exceptional to my family.
This was kind of the broad understanding of the gender dynamics.
And if a guy ends up in an affair, it's always on the female.
Tell me, Lubna, when you were a small child...
Your first home is your grandmother's home in Damascus.
Your mom and your older sister, Alia, and you live with grandma.
But grandma, she wasn't spoiling you, you know, kind of as we expect grandmas to do.
No.
So when my grandmother told my mother, if this marriage does not work out, you are going to bear the consequences alone.
When my father eventually left the country and my mother took us to live in grandmother's house in Damascus.
Even though I was very young, I was able to sense that we were not welcomed in the house.
And my mother did everything to broaden our world outside of that house.
She would take us out every day.
And eventually my grandmother wanted us to leave the house.
And I remember at some point my mother was like sobbing on the phone with my father, asking him for help.
And he offered to help on one condition that we move from Damascus to a small coastal town called Geble, where he would offer us a house, where he would also like support us financially, on the condition that we will be raised near his big family in Geble.
Wow.
So not living with him, but living amongst his family.
Our freedom over hers.
She was willing to uproot herself completely from everything she knew to move to a city that she doesn't know anyone in.
Like she was not even close with my father's family in order for me and my sister to have like a stable life.
She wanted us to have a home.
So you move from Damascus to Jebel basically because you cannot stay in your grandmother's home and your mom's at her wit's end.
Jubla is a coastal town.
And it's in some ways, it sounds really beautiful.
You use one of my favorite words throughout your memoir, Corniche.
And I have to say I love the word Corniche because my father, he was actually a child refugee who landed in Beirut long ago.
And he would tell me about his walks along the Corniche.
So when you say it, I think of dad.
It's the scene on the beach, right?
It's where people are courting each other, looking fabulous.
I mean, Geble is a very small city, but it felt like bigger than life itself.
It was so vibrant.
It was full of life.
The air was Because we moved to Geble in the summer and I remember how the air smelled of the sea and how our balcony would have kind of like like this dew in the morning and sometimes I would just like wipe my fingers on the windowsill and I sometimes I know it's gross, but I would taste it and it would be so salty and And it was very different than Damascus.
Like in Jebel, there is this like card sellers everywhere.
And the houses were so close to each other.
And you would see neighbors like inviting each other over for coffee, you know, by just like shouting to each other from the balconies across the street.
And it was so beautiful.
Like, I remember how much I loved the sea.
But then, as I got older, I started to realize this is also where women walk and this is where women meet their love.
Like future husbands.
Because you go, you walk on the corniche, you're dressed as best as possible, your hair reeking of hairspray, because the humidity is insane.
And you're just walking back and forth and then all these beautiful cars.
And you had money there as well, is that right?
You come to realize that your family is quite wealthy.
Oh, yeah.
I love that.
Especially when I first started school, you know, when I was being kind of put like towards the end.
But then the teacher asked me, what's your full name?
And I told her Lubna Maray.
And then she asked me, are you related to my father?
And when she knew I was Jawdat's daughter, she put me in the front seat.
And there was all these signs and hints that my family was special, that I had this power by having this last name.
How did you find yourself using that power as a child?
You know, this is when my mother started to kind of push back against this, because she truly did not want me and my sister to use this power like my cousins were doing.
And she always told us that your power comes from God, your education and having a future for yourself.
It will never come just from your last name or from your dad's money and your dad's inheritance.
And that was the main conflict often between my mom and dad.
That message is very powerful for you.
And you seem as a child, continuously torn between your mom saying get your education, and your dad sort of waving his money in your face and saying follow my lead.
Describe that dance because you spent quite a bit of time also trying to curry favor with your father.
So the thing is that I was really bad in school.
So in ninth grade I had very bad scores and my mom was horrified with me because the year before my sister's score was one of the top three scores in the country.
And my mother was so happy with my sister's score because you know like throughout our childhood, people kept telling her like girls need their father in their lives in order to succeed.
So by my sister's achievement, my mother showed everyone and proved to everyone that she was enough, like she was more than enough.
So my sister's scores were her source of pride.
So the year after that, when my scores were super low, my scores were her source of shame.
And my mother was so angry with me.
And in that moment I knew I can just turn to my father and say And my father, when he knew about my score, he took me out for lunch and he got me a piece of gold.
And he told me not to worry about my grades.
And he reminded me again that school is for poor people who will need to apply for jobs after college.
But I wouldn't need that because I have his money, his inheritance, and I would have a rich husband.
And then I told him like, but my mother says the opposite.
And he told me like, but look at your mother, she would die of hunger without me.
And I, for some reason, I repeat that line to my mother.
And she was so furious.
She calls him and she tells him that he's illiterate and he's trying to destroy everything she's trying to instill in us.
And two weeks later we try to get money from him and he demands my mother to be on the phone and to apologize from him.
And I remember seeing her on the phone whispering may God bless your hands.
I'm so sorry for what I said and that gave me a hint that I needed him.
I needed my father's approval.
I needed his money if I wanted to have a good future.
Lubna, you write very frankly on this relationship with your dad, where you're, as a child, learning to play the game.
You also talk about being in some ways kind of a bratty rich kid, right?
Like drinking top shelf liquor.
You splurge on American fast food, which somehow is a status symbol all over the world.
It's crazy.
Yeah.
And it becomes impossible to keep playing this game after something you discover one night when you were at your father's house.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Can you tell us about that night?
I mean, it's really hard to go there.
But so, as I mentioned before, my father had lots of mistresses and at some point I became very close with my father and he was kind of rewarding me for spending more time with him by giving me more money.
So money became my understanding of what love is.
And the more money he gave me, the more love I felt coming from him.
So at some point we became close and I would spend my weekends at his house.
And you know, sometimes women would come and I mean I was old enough at that point to know what was going on.
And there was this one woman who would come and she often brought her daughter with her.
And first I was very like I admired my father that he allowed his mistress to bring her daughter because probably the daughter has no one else in the house to take care of her.
And so I felt like it was very generous of my father to allow the daughter to also stay at the house.
And when I used to stay with my father, we had separate floors.
One day I went to my father's floor and I saw the mistress in the kitchen and and I heard sounds coming from my father's room and, And I remember just like being frozen.
And I look at the mistress' face and she lowered her eyes.
And I remember she started to push me slowly towards the door.
But then I hear the voice again.
I hear the sound again.
And I realized that my father was not sleeping with the mom.
He was actually sleeping with a child.
And I was so horrified you discover that your father is raping the 12 year old daughter of his mistress.
Yeah.
And that her mother knows she's facilitating it.
Yeah.
And when he learns that you have now found out, you're in on the secret, he calls you to his room.
And what happens?
He gives me a folder, sorry, like an envelope with $100 bills.
And he asked me to count them.
And I remember it was almost like the equivalent of a million Syrian lira.
And he takes $400 of the stash and he gives it to me.
And I knew what he was doing.
He wanted to remind me that I can judge him as much as I want, but he has the power.
And I took the money from him and I kissed his hand and I thanked him.
You know Lubna, as I came to that part of your memoir, What I honestly thought is I thought about the Epstein files which are coming out, which continue to come out.
Again, the daughter was 12 years old.
And what's so sad about all of this is that it's also on the women in this instance.
I mean, even with the Epstein files, he has a female facilitating all of this for him.
I mean, it's really hard for me to make any big claims, but in my culture there is this kind of collective agreement that the younger the girl is, the better.
And this is what becomes scary, like how young is too young?
And like in a way, it was normalized.
Like there were girls in my school who got married in like eighth grade and ninth grade.
And these were like 14 years old girls.
No one questioned that.
No one said, OK, this girl still is not developed mentally to make this decision.
We're listening to guest interviewer Arthi Shahani's interview with activist and journalist Lubna Mirai about her new book Defiance a memoir of awakening, rebellion and survival in Syria.
We'll hear more of the interview after a break.
I'm Terry Gross, and this is Fresh Air.
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Follow us for the latest each morning on Up First on the NPR app or wherever you get your podcasts.
On NPR's Wildcard podcast, Oscar nominee Wagner Mora on keeping his values on his path to success.
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You know, but I'm like, I can't do this.
I can't do that because otherwise I'll be miserable.
Watch or listen to that Wildcard conversation on the NPR app or on YouTube at NPR Wildcard.
This is Fresh Air.
I'm Terry Gross.
Let's get back to our interview with photojournalist and activist Lubna Mirai, who's now living in exile in the United States.
Her new book is called Defiance, a memoir of awakening, rebellion and survival in Syria.
Her father was part of Syria's al-Assad regime, but when the Arab Spring began, she joined the movement against the regime.
In the book she takes a very personal approach to the Syrian civil war and tries to make sense of how her family and country fell apart, perhaps for similar reasons.
Mariah had to learn to hold a camera steady as civilians, including children, fled snipers and barrel bombs.
She also talks about grappling with alcoholism and reluctantly making New York City her home.
She spoke with guest interviewer, Arthur Shahani.
You decide to leave your father's hometown and move to Damascus.
And there you experience a political awakening.
Describe the very first protest you joined.
So the very first protest I joined.
First of all, I was I mean, I'm raised in a society that is so shielded from the realities of what's happening in the country.
So, even though I was seeing protests online and kind of aware of what was going on, I did not expect anything bad to come out of me going to the protest.
I actually stumbled upon the protest.
I was scrolling through Facebook.
I had an announcement for a protest that was happening next hour and I just called a friend and I tell him hey, let's go to this neighborhood.
I mean, I didn't say protest because, you know, I know like phone lines were monitored.
So I just mentioned the name of the neighborhood and my friend freaks out.
He's like, why are you saying this on the phone?
Because he knew that even if I just say the name of the neighborhood, whoever is listening, or if anyone is listening, they will know we are going to a protest, because it was a hotbed for protest, anti-government protests.
At that time and I remember when I was getting dressed I was thinking and I was like wondering like should we go for hookah after, or should we go for lunch after, just a nice light and breezy afternoon?
Yeah,
And I'm like, OK.
And then I was like oh, maybe we should actually eat lunch before, because I get nauseous if I smoke hookah with that before eating lunch.
So I was going there kind of convinced that it's going to be like I just want I just wanted to see.
I was just curious.
I wanted to see from afar and then everything will be good.
We go to the protest.
We join the crowd and they push him to the front because at that point they were asking men to go to the front and women to the back.
So in case they shoot at us, we are protected.
And I march with these people, complete strangers.
And I could not chant with them.
I remember they were chanting against.
They were saying curse your soul Hafez, which is the father of the current president.
And I couldn't say the words.
I opened my mouth and I tried to push them out.
And I couldn't.
It felt I was doing something wrong.
Because you were raised to believe that Hafez al-Assad was the great protector of the Alawite people.
We loved him.
I mean, I loved him so much that I didn't even refer to him as president as a child.
I used to refer to him as Baba Asad, Father Asad.
And even though I was aware kind of aware of what's going on in the country and aware that, you know, maybe Baba Asad was not as great as we were told, still I was.
His love was so ingrained in me.
I couldn't say the words anymore.
We marched for a little bit and there i hear like um, a sound like like, like a.
My mind told me it was a drum, because I saw videos online where people would bring a drum to the protest.
And when I heard the sound, I was like, oh, wow, the drum is here.
And I knew I was mistaken.
That was not a drum when I started to see people running my way like they were running the opposite direction.
And I knew we were being shot at.
And I start running with people and I was terrified and I didn't know where to go.
And I find myself on a corner between like a wall and a car.
And one person was running and I see him.
And then seconds later, he just falls to the ground.
And I realized he was shot.
And at that moment, I remember hearing myself screaming, I don't want to die.
I don't want to die.
And I keep running and I'm shaking so much that I end up falling.
And then someone lifts me from my armpits. grabs me and he asks me, did you get shot?
I said no.
And he just runs with me and he takes me to a building.
We go upstairs.
He pushes the door and it was a house full of women and a few children.
And I see them all gathered around the window.
And I go with them.
I look out from the window and I see... more people were being dragged to safety.
And there was like streaks of blood on the pavement underneath.
And that day, eight people got killed.
And I knew my life was not going to be the same after that day.
Because I knew everything I was told growing up. was a lie.
And it's made me question everything I grew up believing.
You say, you know, everything you were told was a lie.
Help us understand what do you mean by that, that everything was a lie?
That people are being killed in protests because they're doing something like terrible or because they're firing at the police.
And that, you know, These people are the ones creating chaos in the country.
But I was one of them.
I didn't even shout.
I didn't even chant.
And I almost got killed.
It made me realize that just the fact that you are going into the street and say something you're not supposed to say, you're going to be punished by live bullets.
We're listening to our guest interviewer, Arthi Shahani, speaking with Labna Mirai, author of the new book Defiance a memoir of awakening, rebellion and survival in Syria.
Mirai is a photojournalist.
They'll continue the conversation after a short break.
This is Fresh Air.
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On Bullseye Yahya Abdul-Mateen II and the most surprising thing he learned after receiving one of the highest honors in acting.
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This is fresh air.
Let's get back to the conversation with journalist and writer Lubna Mirai about her new book Defiance a memoir of awakening, rebellion and survival in Syria.
She spoke with guest interviewer Arthur Shahani.
Your protest becomes known to your entire family.
And what happens to your mother, who all this time has been living in your dad's family's property?
And your dad is part of the very government you're now protesting to overthrow.
When I took a step to make my involvement public.
I admit that I did that not knowing the punishment that's awaiting me.
Because at that moment, at that point, I was not really aware of the brutality that my father was capable of.
I expected him to be angry, but I did not expect him to be involved in my mother's disappearance in order for me to turn myself in.
And that's something I blamed myself for.
For years, that if I only did things differently, my mother would have been alive now.
What did your father do?
At some point things become really dangerous in Damascus and so I decide to flee to Turkey.
And on the way to Turkey, I get into this conflict with one of the rebel commanders and, as a result, I feel like I need to film a video saying that this movement has Alawites and they exist.
And it was a way for me to push back against that narrative that was being adopted by both the rebels and the government, that all Alawites are supportive of the government.
So I felt responsible to say something.
You wanted to show that members of the Alawite minority also supported the anti-government movement.
Exactly.
So I recorded that video and I uploaded it.
And two days later, I was crossing to Turkey.
And can I read this?
Because it's very painful for me just to recount without... Can I read it?
It's easier for me.
Okay.
Or that ruins the interview.
It doesn't ruin the interview, no.
My mother's cell phone number appears on the screen.
I answer immediately.
Mama, can you hear me?
I ask.
Her voice comes through, trembling.
Something is not right.
I fear the worst has occurred.
The very real danger of my father and what he might do if I did anything public against the government under my real identity.
I hadn't listened to her.
I had done what she warned me against and left her to deal with the consequences alone.
Consequences she had seen coming. long before me.
Mama, are you okay?
I've been so worried about you.
Please tell me you're okay.
I beg.
It seems as if she's not able to hear what I'm saying.
Later, I would wonder if she could even hear my voice, or if she had been forced to speak without hearing me on the other end.
Lubna, please come back, I need to have a surgery, and I want you to come home, she says.
I hear the pain in her sobs and it makes me wish for my own death, knowing that I'm responsible for what's happening to her.
If my father ordered men to detain her, I should be there instead.
Before I can say anything, the line cuts.
And that was the last time I hear from her.
And I cannot tell you how many times I replayed this phone call in my head over the past 14 years.
At this point,
But, you know, I blamed myself.
I just felt it was my fault that I did something so reckless, so public, while my mother was still there.
And I underestimated the danger I was putting her through.
Your mother is no longer with us.
Do you think she'd be proud of you for how you've used your voice?
I would like to think so, but I know that she Silence was something that she didn't want me to adapt and I felt, you know, writing this book was a way for me to honor her and although, you know, pushing her memory away and and and the grief was how I was able to stay sane and and move forward, I just wish I had have told her more how much I loved her and how much I appreciated her.
And I think that's what's so painful about losing a parent in a young age, because in a young age you just assume your parents are going to be there for you forever.
And I was not able to tell her any of this.
You're saying it in a very big way now, Lubna.
I found defiance to be breathtaking.
And I was really pulled in frankly, because I'm worried about the stability of my own country, the United States.
And one of the key things that you describe is your effort to document the horror of warfare.
You are documenting, you are literally learning to hold a camera steady as bullets are flying and people are running.
You are part of that movement that is showing truth and believing.
When we show truth, justice will prevail.
I mean, that's the underlying premise of journalism.
That's why we do what we do.
And I have to ask you Lubna, do you still believe in the power of reporting, of journalism, to bring justice?
I think our oppressors wait for us to give up.
And one of the ways to give up and let our oppressors win is by just stop speaking up and not push against the narrative that they are trying, that they are adopting.
And, you know...
One of the reasons that I decided to write this book was it was a political moment when I realized that there was this collective agreement on turning the page on the Arab Spring and this collective agreement to rehabilitate Assad after he shattered the country.
It was a responsibility to write what happened.
And we need documentation, even if we are not seeing...
The results now.
This is for the future generations to understand what was happening and, although we are not able to stop the atrocities, we can give the future generation a toolbox to think better and to move better and learn from our mistakes.
And I always tell, you know, when people ask me, oh, what do you think now about the Arab Spring?
And I always tell them, like the Arab Spring taught us to dream, but now this moment taught us to think,
Lubna Marai, I want to thank you, and I needed to hear you today.
Thank you so much.
Labna Mirai is the author of the new book Defiance a memoir of awakening, rebellion and survival in Syria.
She spoke with guest interviewer, Arthi Shahani.
Arthi is a former NPR tech reporter.
She hosted the podcast, Art of Power, and is the author of the memoir, Here We Are.
Coming up.
Critic-at-large John Powers reviews the new thriller Crime 101 starring Chris Hemsworth, Halle Berry and Mark Ruffalo.
This is Fresh Air.
This is fresh air.
The new thriller Crime 101 stars Chris Hemsworth as an LA jewel thief who gets involved with a police detective and a high-end insurance agent.
The movie also stars Halle Berry and Mark Ruffalo.
Our critic-at-large, John Power, says the movie is a deliberate throwback and he had a swell time watching it.
If there's anything I miss in pop culture, it's the presence of ordinary movies.
I don't mean blockbusters like Avatar or cultural events like Barbenheimer or Oscar contenders like One Battle After Another.
I'm talking about the routine, well-made entertainments that, for nearly a century, used to open in theaters every week.
You'd go see them because the story sounded good, or you liked the stars, or you just wanted to enjoy something as part of an audience.
I was reminded of how much I'd missed them as I watched Crime 101, a pleasingly rare example of what used to be commonplace.
Based on a 2020 novella by the terrific crime novelist Don Winslow, Bart Layton's movie boasts a slate of top-notch stars and puts a nifty, self-conscious spin on the old-fashioned heist picture.
Hopscotching through Los Angeles' glamour and grit.
The action centers on three solitary characters, each at a personal Rubicon.
Chris Hemsworth plays Davis, a virtuoso jewel thief who pulls off clockwork robberies in neighborhoods along the 101 freeway.
A study in terse masculinity—Davis is a Steve McQueen fan, it's worth noting—
This control freak gets knocked off his bearings by running afoul of his mentor, played by a menacing Nick Nolte, and by getting involved with a charming publicist.
That's Monica Barbaro, who wants him to open up.
His nemesis is an honest police detective named Lou, nicely played by Mark Ruffalo.
Rumpled and brainy.
Lou's got an unhappy wife that's Jennifer Jason Leigh, and an unhappy boss who tells him to stop chasing the 101 jewel thief and start padding LAPD arrest stats by closing easier cases.
But Lou's obsessed.
Both he and Davis wind up crossing paths with Sharon.
That's an excellent Halle Berry who works selling high-end insurance to rich jerks.
One played with fine jerkiness by Tate Donovan.
Waiting for a promotion that never comes.
Sharon suffers from insomnia.
Her sleep app chastises her and seeks refuge in self-affirmation tapes.
Although frustrated, Sharon is sharp.
Here, soon after they meet, Davis takes her to a restaurant and asks her to size him up.
Well, you look like a person who has secrets.
Do I?
Mm-hmm.
Your shirt's new, or newly pressed, which says you don't do your own laundry or you're a bit OCD.
You're very groomed.
Your hair, your nails, your $12,000 watch there.
Everything is just a little too perfect.
Which tells me you have a lot of money and a lot of time on your hands, Mike.
You've got the clothes, the cars, but you can't seem to look me in the eye.
And I'd bet you didn't grow up with money.
How do you figure that?
Because people who grow up in chaos crave order.
You talking about me or you?
Maybe both.
Now, if you've ever seen a heist movie, you know that the action will inevitably build to a big robbery.
That brings all the principles together.
Crime 101 does this quite deftly and even stirs into the brew a young thug, played by Barry Keoghan in comical blonde hair, whose run-amuck emotions make him dangerous.
That said, one of the movie's pleasures is that it isn't clogged with action sequences.
It's got an old-fashioned interest in character, especially compromised characters and gestures at darkness, rather than diving into it.
It glistens with the silver-lined optimism you find in Elmore Leonard.
The dialogue is intelligent and often witty.
The stars seem like stars.
The tension keeps building.
And now that filming has largely abandoned LA, it's a treat to see a movie that once again captures the many textures of the city, from its taco stands and snaking freeways to its yoga mat beaches, billionaire mansions and encampments on the streets.
Leighton lets us see how the whole plot is driven by the abyss separating the entitlement of L.A.'
's haves from the struggle of its countless have-nots.
Winslow's original novella appeared in a collection called Broken, and that's a handy clue to what makes this movie interesting.
Davis, Lou and Sharon are all wounded but essentially decent people who follow specific codes of honor.
Davis's robberies take care to never ever hurt anyone.
Lou doesn't bust innocent people just for the arrest stats or cover up police shootings like other cops.
Sharon behaves like a proper insurance agent, believing she's helping people feel safe and climbing the corporate ladder diligently.
Yet they inhabit a broken reality.
Davis's fellow crooks don't actually believe in honor among thieves.
Lou's colleagues care less about justice than covering for each other.
Sharon's bosses think that women agents age out because rich male clients only want to deal with hot young ones.
As the story builds, each must confront this broken world and decide whether or not to do some breaking of their own, starting with their own personal codes.
Naturally I won't tell you what or who gets broken, but I will say that Crime 101 pays off neatly, probably too neatly.
But I didn't mind at all.
That's how ordinary movies are supposed to end.
John Powers reviewed Crime 101.
It's now in theaters.
Tomorrow on Fresh Air.
We take a look inside the development of the company Anthropix artificial intelligence assistant called Claude.
New Yorker writer Gideon Lewis Krauss goes inside the lab where researchers and digital neuroscientists are racing to make this AI system different from competitors.
He'll discuss the implications of AI's widening use, including systems that write their own code.
I hope you'll join us.
To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air.
Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger.
Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham, with additional assistance today from Charlie Kyer.
Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne-Marie Boldenato, Lauren Krenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Thea Chaloner, Susan Yakundi, Anna Bauman and Nico Gonzalez-Whistler.
Our digital media producer is Molly C.V.
Nesper.
Roberta Shorrock directs the show.
Our co-host is Tanya Mosley.
I'm Terry Gross.
