A great Olympics Opening Ceremony should be a profound, stirring celebration of a country’s history and culture. It should also be absolutely batshit. On those metrics, I would consider Friday’s kickoff to the Paris games a rousing success.
The spectacle was, from my perspective, very French: I didn’t understand most of what was going on, but kept being aggressively told it was all very cool and so I convinced myself that I loved it. And then there was the Céline Dion of it all. (Not French, but can speak it!)
I could never have—even on my most potent cocktail of melatonin, weed gummy, and white wine—dreamed up the orgy of music, dance styles, and energetic skipping through the streets of Paris that made up the eclectic ceremony.
