Alexander Payne’s new film, The Holdovers, is set in 1970, a time frame soaked into the aesthetic from the first minute—the grainy film stock, the strumming acoustic soundtrack, even the custom-made Focus Features logo with the blocky color forms of bygone studio branding. The director may be harkening back to the era because it was a time of great upheaval, both cinematic (with the dawn of New Hollywood) and social. But Barton Academy, the stodgy Massachusetts boarding school where The Holdovers is set, is a bulwark against all forms of change—and the film’s protagonist, the history professor Paul Hunham (played by Paul Giamatti), seems to have his feet firmly planted in the past.

To most of his students, Paul is a straightforward villain—a supreme curmudgeon with exacting academic standards who is, shall we say, not very skilled at finessing the social-emotional side of learning. Payne knows how to make a hero out of an intractable grouch: He already made another movie with Giamatti, the rollickingly ill-tempered Sideways, that got the audience rooting for a peevish, moody snob. Plenty of his other great films, such as About Schmidt and Nebraska, have wrung big laughs from the lives of similarly miserable middle-aged grumps. The Holdovers, then, is something of a welcome return to form, a pitch-perfect dramedy about how even creatures like Paul have the capacity for incremental change.

As The Holdovers opens, Paul, who’s resolutely uninterested in academic politics, dares to fail the son of one of the school’s boosters. As a sort of punishment, he’s given the assignment of chaperoning the motley collection of students who remain at school during Christmas vacation. His chief companions in the frozen New England dormitories are the student Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa), who is being ignored by his recently remarried mother, and the school cook Mary Lamb (Da’Vine Joy Randolph), who is freshly mourning the loss of her son in Vietnam.

[Read: Reliving the 2004 movie Sideways in 2022]

These three wounded spirits, all eager to retreat from reality for different reasons, are catnip to Payne and the screenwriter David Hemingson, who delight in nudging them together and seeing the ways they can irritate and eventually support one another. Each character starts the film locked in their own feelings: Paul resents his diminished stature at the school, Angus lashes out about his teenage abandonment, and Mary struggles to take any steps that might make it look like she’s moving past her loss. The snowy Massachusetts climes and drafty-looking dorms set the perfect mood for Payne’s particular brand of despondence—for the few hours the sun is up, the environment somehow feels chillier and more remote than ever.

The film’s 133-minute running time is roomy, given the lack of propulsive plot—moping around an empty boarding school is not exactly the stuff of epic drama. But Payne fills every narrative nook and cranny with careful detail, seeking to understand the academic journey that led Paul to his dusty corner of books, and the dark family factors motivating Angus’s rebellious loneliness. Giamatti can do this kind of role in his sleep, but this is one of his best, with a panoply of cantankerous mannerisms (he can’t stop calling students “philistines” and “Visigoths”) covering up a wounded sense of pride. Sessa, giving his first-ever screen performance, is all raw nerviness, but Randolph might be the film’s most triumphant performance—she lets Mary’s biting wit peek out at the perfect moments without sacrificing a well-earned sense of insurmountable sadness.

Each character’s sorrow does eventually begin to thaw, and surprising bonds start to form—this is a movie, after all, and viewers tend to demand some character development. Just as in Payne’s other best films, the big changes creep up beautifully. In Election, he depicted Matthew Broderick’s descent into jealous madness, and in Sideways, he showed Giamatti’s character emerge from a deep depressive funk—but in both films, the transformation felt gradual and well-earned. The Holdovers accomplishes something similar with deft and surprising grace, turning from a sad comedy about retrograde schooling into a heartwarming family tale. A few belly laughs abound, but it’s the deep care for its characters that makes The Holdovers really sing.

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Terrorism, like war, is a word we tend to use almost as a reflex to describe anything that horrifies us. But words can lead us to choose policies, and we should be aware of how we use them.

First, here are three new stories from The Atlantic:

“Why I own guns and why I’m part of the problem.” Hurricane Otis was too fast for the forecasters. Will Republicans pay a price for extremism? The hero Gen Z needs

Another Terrifying Day

As I write this, a mass shooter is loose in Maine. I have close family members who live not far from the scene of the massacre, and, like all Americans, I am praying that his rampage is stopped before he kills again.

I do not know why someone in Maine engaged in a mass slaughter yesterday. (Authorities have identified a suspect, but I see no point in naming him here.) The alleged shooter was reportedly committed to a mental-health facility this past summer, but I do not know what condition led to his stay. I do not know if there was some precipitating event, or whether he was under the influence of drugs, or if he is just an evil human being.

I also do not know if he is a terrorist. At this moment, no one does. But on social media, especially, the word terrorist is being thrown about with great confidence, especially now that we have some evidence that the suspect’s social-media feed was heavy with likes of right-wing accounts. This may not mean much; the alleged shooter also seemed to like Jim Cramer and other finance-related accounts. We can’t really ascribe motive out of any of that; sometimes, people are radicalized and become dangerous, but other times, dangerous people seek out causes as a rationalization for violence.

I will be honest here and tell you that I considered leaving this subject for another day. We’re all scared, shocked, and angry. But times like this, when our fears are so sharp, are exactly when we need to think more calmly about the nature of the threat we’re facing. When we rush to apply words because they seem right to us in the heat of the moment, we run the risk of making mistakes that will reverberate throughout our later discussions and influence the policy choices we eventually make.

The U.S. government has its own definition of terrorism, and it is fairly loose—not least because after 9/11, the government wanted more flexibility in charging people for terroristic acts. But let’s start with something very important that almost all governments agree on: Terrorism is a political act intentionally aimed at civilians in order to produce fear and subsequent changes in government policy (or even the destruction of the targeted regime).

Usually, definitions of terrorism emphasize that the perpetrators are nongovernmental actors, because we already have terms for when states engage in the intentional murder of civilians: crimes against humanity and, in some cases, war crimes. (Intention is important: Civilians are always killed in wartime, but specifically targeting them is a crime.)

Counterterrorism operations also look for networks, planning, and cooperation among the killers. These networks have goals: Sometimes, the goal is relatively achievable (“release our comrades from prison”), sometimes it is huge (“give us autonomy” or “remove your forces from this area”), and sometimes it is nearly impossible (“overthrow your government and adopt our religion”). But there is always a goal.

Terrorism without a political motive isn’t terrorism. Not everything that terrifies people is terrorism, either, as counterintuitive as that may seem. After all, if it’s terrifying, it’s terrorism, right? Nevertheless, although many things scare (and kill) large numbers of people—gang wars, serial killers, arson—those that lack a coherent political character fall outside the legal, and sensible, definition of terrorism. They are crimes against other human beings, but they are not an attack on the entire political order.

Why does any of this matter? Above all, we need clarity on the nature of the crime so that we can choose the right response. Ever since 9/11, invoking terrorism in America has carried the possibility of setting in motion the immense machinery of government, regardless of the actual threat. But if we more carefully define terrorism to mean non-state actors attacking civilians to produce a political outcome, it gets a lot easier to think about how to react.

For example, Son of Sam killing six people, wounding seven others, and scaring the hell out of New York in 1976 and 1977 is ghastly, but it is not terrorism. But a car bomb in front of a mall—or a jetliner aimed at a building—attached to a political or social cause is terrorism. Son of Sam requires a manhunt by local and regional law enforcement. The car bomb requires a significant governmental response—and perhaps even military mobilization.

The shooting in Maine is not the only event spurring the daily deployment of terrorism as a term. The Hamas attack on Israel is now “Israel’s 9/11,” and the United States is reportedly advising the Israeli government not to make some of the same mistakes America made in its own War on Terror. (War is another term thrown about too easily, but that’s a subject for another day.) I know the old saw “one man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist,” but I believe that the Hamas invasion was terrorism: Non-state actors intentionally targeted civilians to effect a political goal.

You can argue over justice and morality—some people have made the despicable argument that Israel brought this nightmare on itself, similar to arguments made about America deserving what happened on 9/11—but there can be no argument that rape, infanticide, and butchery in service of a political goal are terrorism. (Russia has done the same in Ukraine—but as a state actor, the Kremlin and its high command should be charged with crimes against humanity and war crimes.)

In Maine, the situation is far less clear. It might make us feel better, and give more meaning to the heartbreaking deaths, to believe that we’re fighting terrorism; the alternative is to wrestle with the even more frightening and desolating possibility that the Maine shooter may (like the Las Vegas killer in 2017) have had no real reason to kill beyond his own unknowable inner torment.

When we use a word such as terrorism promiscuously, we risk turning it into little more than shorthand for our fear and anger. The term not only invites a massive government reaction but could also lead to misallocation of resources in our responses, especially if we conflate mental illness, the obvious problem of guns, and “terrorism.”

To take but one example: In late 2021, a mentally disturbed 15-year-old named Ethan Crumbley killed four people at his school. He was convicted of murder—and of terrorism, under a state law enacted after 9/11. (The prosecutor’s argument was essentially that Crumbley’s act had terrified people, and so: terrorism.) If a teenage school shooter who was hallucinating about demons and sending messages pleading for help is a terrorist, then the word has virtually no meaning.

Sanctifying the word terrorism as an obvious motive for every mass killing was a significant mistake made by Americans and their government after 9/11. The world is crawling with plenty of real terrorists, but we should pause before we reach for a word whose incantation can summon powerful and illiberal forces from within our institutions—and ourselves.

Related:

The narcissism of the angry young men A lone-wolf shooter has an online pack.

Today’s News

Israel sent armored tanks into northern Gaza overnight following remarks from Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu about a likely ground invasion.    Representative Jamaal Bowman pleaded guilty to setting off a false fire alarm in a House office building. The Texas House of Representatives passed a bill that would make it a state crime to cross illegally into Texas, and enable officers to arrest and deport undocumented immigrants.

More From The Atlantic

Dobbs’s confounding effect on abortion rates Biden says goodbye to tweezer economics. “I love candy. But does it make me happy?” We’ve never seen anything like the Menendez indictment.

Culture Break

Read. They Called Us Exceptional: And Other Lies That Raised Us, a memoir by Prachi Gupta, delves into the grief of cutting off family, and argues that estrangement can be a tool of self-love.

Listen. In the latest episode of Radio Atlantic, host Hanna Rosin speaks with Jordan Peele and N. K. Jemisin about their new anthology, Out There Screaming, and the subversive goals of Black horror.

Play our daily crossword.

P.S.

I am a traditionalist who dislikes much about modern music. (I think Auto-Tune is a crime against God and man.) So I cringed when I saw in The Guardian that Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr are going to use AI to resurrect John Lennon for one more Beatles tune, with a guitar part recorded in the 1990s by George Harrison, who died in 2001.

When I learned more, I was heartened. I liked the use of John’s voice in later Beatle releases, especially the song “Free As a Bird.” Apparently, John’s widow, Yoko Ono, had some of these materials on a cassette John had marked “For Paul,” and the three surviving Beatles at the time used modern studio magic to clean up the tapes. But technological limitations prevented them from using all of John’s singing and playing. AI allowed Paul and Ringo to restore his parts in the new single, titled “Now and Then.”

George reportedly didn’t like “Now and Then,” but his widow and his son think that with the restored quality, he’d have approved. It wouldn’t be the first time the Beatles disagreed on a song. But I’m glad we’re going to get one more single from them before they finally close their legendary catalog.

— Tom

Katherine Hu contributed to this newsletter.

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