Author: admin

It’s been 50 years since “Jaws” ruined that summer, spawning a fleet of increasingly dreadful sequels and knockoffs, turning a simple fish into a movie monster, and a dozen since “Sharknado” turned the monster into a joke. Sharks had been swimming in the culture before that, to be sure, often with the prefix “man-eating” appended, though men eat sharks too, and way more often — so who’s the real apex predator? And even though they are not as naturally cute as our cousins the dolphins and whales — I have never heard of one balancing a ball on its nose — they have also been made adorable as plush toys and cartoon characters.

“All the Sharks,” premiering Friday on Netflix, is a competition show in which four teams of two vie to photograph the most, and the most different, species of sharks, across two eight-hour days, and are set loose in the waters off Japan, the Maldives, South Africa, Australia, the Bahamas and the Galapagos Islands. And, brother, are there a lot of varieties — hammerhead shark, walking shark, whale shark, tawny nurse shark, pajama shark, pelagic thresher, tiger shark, tasselled wobbegong shark, puffadder shy shark, baby shark, mommy shark and daddy shark, to name but a few. (There are 124 species of sharks in Japanese waters, we’re told, and 200 off South Africa.) Points are awarded according to the rarity or abundance of the species in each location. These sharks are neither monsters nor jokes, though at least one contestant finds the banded houndshark “freaking adorable … their little cat eyes, their subterminal mouth.”

As competitions go, it is friendly, like “The Great British Baking Show” or “MasterChef Junior.” There’s no way to sabotage your opponents, no strategy past guessing where the sharks might be running, eating or hanging out. The purse — $50,000 — goes to the winners’ chosen marine charity, though prizes are also awarded to the top-scoring team in each episode. (Cool gear, seaside vacations.) Winning is not so much the point as just staying in as long as possible — because it’s fun. Sometimes things don’t go a team’s way, but no one has a bad attitude.

Naturally they are good-looking, because this is television, and fit, because you need to be to do this; most have professional expertise in fishy, watery or wild things. (They certainly know their sharks.) Brendan (marine biologist) and Chris (fisheries ecologist) are a team called the Shark Docs. Aliah (marine biologist specializing in stingrays — which are closely related to sharks, did you know?) and MJ, identified as an avid spearfisher and shark diver, comprise Gills Gone Wild; they met at a “bikini beach cleanup” and have been besties ever since. British Bait Off are Sarah (environmental journalist) and Dan (underwater cameraman), who like a cup of tea. And finally, there are the Land Sharks, Randy and Rosie. Dreadlocked Randy, a wildlife biologist, says, “I was always one of the only Black guys in my classes … I got that all the time: ‘Oh, you’re doing that white boy stuff’ and it’s just like, ‘No, I’m doing stuff that I love.’” Rosie, an ecologist who specializes in apex predators, wants to show girls it’s “OK to be badass … work with these crazy animals, get down and dirty.” She can hold her breath for five minutes.

The show has been produced with the usual tics of the genre: comments presented in the present tense that could only have been taped later; dramatic music and editing; the “hey ho uh-oh” narrative framing of big, loud host Tom “The Blowfish” Hird, with his braided pirate’s beard, whose website identifies him as a “heavy metal marine biologist.” Footage of great white sharks — the variety “Jaws” made famous — is inserted for the thrill factor, but none are coming.

But whatever massaging has been applied, “All the Sharks” is real enough. The contestants deal with rough seas, strong currents, jellyfish and sundry venomous creatures, intruding fishermen, limited air, sinus crises, variable visibility and unexpected orcas. And the sharks — who do not seem particularly interested in the humans, as there is no lack of familiar lunch options — do sometimes arrive in great, unsettling profusion. (There’s a reason “shark-infested waters” became a phrase.) Meanwhile, the ocean itself plays its ungovernable part. In their enveloping blueness, dotted with colorful fish and coral reefs, the undersea scenes are, in fact, quite meditative. (Humans move slow down there.) Someone describes it as like being inside a screen saver.

In the bargain, we learn not a little bit about shark behavior and biology, and there is an implicit, sometimes explicit, conservation theme. Each encountered species gets a graphic describing not only its length, weight and lifespan but the degree to which it is or isn’t endangered — and, sad to say, many are.

Vera, the heroine of Gary Shteyngart’s sixth novel, “Vera, or Faith,” is a whip-smart 10-year-old Manhattanite, but she’s not quite smart enough to figure out her parents’ intentions. Why is dad so concerned about “status”? Why does her stepmom call some meals “WASP lunches”? How come every time they visit somebody’s house she’s assigned to see if they have a copy of “The Power Broker” on their shelves? She’s all but doomed to be bourgeois and neurotic, as if a juvenile court has sentenced her to live in a New Yorker cartoon.

Since his 2002 debut, “The Russian Debutante’s Handbook,” Shteyngart has proved adept at finding humor in the intersection of immigrant life, wealth and relationships, and “Vera” largely sticks to that mix. But the cynicism that has always thrummed underneath his high-concept comedies — the dehumanizing algorithms, the rapacious finance system — is more prominent in this slim, potent novel. Vera is witnessing both the slow erosion of her parents’ marriage along with the rapid decline of democracy in near-future America. Her precocity gives the novel its wit, but Shteyngart is also alert to the fact that a child, however bright, is fundamentally helpless.

Not to mention desperate for her parents’ affection, which is in short supply for Vera. Her father, the editor of a liberal intellectual magazine, seems constantly distracted by his efforts to court a billionaire to purchase it, while her stepmom is more focused on her son’s ADHD and the family’s rapidly dwindling bank account. Things are no better outside in the world, where a constitutional convention seems ready to pass an amendment awarding five-thirds voting rights for “exceptional Americans.” (Read: white people.) Vera, the daughter of a Russian father and Korean mother, may be banished to second-class citizenry.

Even worse, her school has assigned her to take the side of the “five-thirders” in an upcoming classroom debate. So it’s become urgent for her to understand the world just as it’s become inexplicable. Shteyngart is stellar at showing just how alienated she’s become: “She knew kids were supposed to have more posters on their walls to show off their inner life, but she liked her inner life to stay inside her.” And she seems to be handling the crisis with more maturity than her father, who’s drunk and clumsy in their home: “If anyone needed to see Mrs. S., the school counselor with the master’s in social work degree, it was Daddy.”

It’s a challenge to write from the perspective of a child without being arch or cutesy — stories about kids learning about the real world can degrade to plainspoken YA or cheap melodrama. Shteyngart is striving for something more supple, using Vera’s point of view to clarify how adults become victims of their own emotional shutoffs, the way they use language to at once appear smart while covering up their feelings. “Our country’s a supermarket where some people just get to carry out whatever they want. You and I sadly are not those people,” Dad tells her, forcing her to unpack a metaphor stuffed full of ideology, economics, self-loathing and more.

Every chapter in the book starts with the phrase “She had to,” explaining Vera’s various missions amid this dysfunction: “hold the family together,” “fall asleep,” “be cool,” “win the debate.” Kids like her have to be action-oriented; they don’t have the privilege of adults’ deflections. Small wonder, then, that her most reliable companion is an AI-powered chessboard, which offers direct answers to her most pressing questions. (One of Shteyngart’s most potent running jokes is that adults aren’t more clever than computers they command.) Once she falls into a mission to discover the truth about her birth mother, she becomes more alert to the world’s brutal simplicity: “The world was a razor cut … It would cut and cut and cut.”

Shteyngart’s grown-up kids’ story has two obvious inspirations: One, as the title suggests, is Vladimir Nabokov’s 1969 novel “Ada, or Ardor,” the other Henry James’ 1897 novel “What Maisie Knew.” Both are concerned with childhood traumas, and if Shteyngart isn’t explicitly borrowing their plots he borrows some of their gravitas, the sense that preteendom is a crucible for experiencing life’s various crises.

In its final chapters, the novel takes a turn that is designed to speak to our current moment, spotlighting the way that Trump-era nativist policies have brought needless harm to Americans. A country can abandon its principles, he means to say, just as a parent can abandon a child. But if “Vera” suggests a particular vision of our particular dystopian moment, it also suggests a more enduring predicament for children, who live with the consequences of others’ decisions but don’t get a vote in them.

“There were a lot of ‘statuses’ in the world and each year she was becoming aware of more of them,” Vera observes. Children will have to learn them faster now.

Athitakis is a writer in Phoenix and author of “The New Midwest.”

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