the history of concrete
The History of Concrete (2026)
Directed by John Wilson
To describe what John Wilson does in The History of Concrete and his HBO show, How To With John Wilson, is akin to asking a layman what makes art art. It gets a bit convoluted when the only answers are either “you know it when you see it” or “let me tell you what it’s not.” You just sort of feel your way through it, acknowledging the sheer magnitude of detail in what Wilson is doing. You get flummoxed by the asides and detours. You almost need to remind yourself: how did we get here? It’s an evolution of style, a modern twist on Ross McElwee’s Sherman’s March, though done in an episodic, more fragmented way. Wilson often feels like part of a contemporary collective, with The History of Concrete fittingly featuring cameo appearances from Nathan Fielder and Tim Robinson, two performers who have cultivated a similar kind of anxious millennial humor. But while those contemporaries have delved into the increasingly esoteric, Wilson remains incredibly humanistic, a distinctly New York City voice that sees him begin to buckle when confronted with the growing reality that the city he loves is beginning to crumble. The History of Concrete? It’s about concrete. And New York City. And everything else in between.
More or less an extended episode of How To…, The History of Concrete sees Wilson attempting to navigate life after having a successful television show. The checks are no longer as plentiful, and while he owns the NYC building that was such a pivotal aspect of the show, it’s falling apart and requires significant structural repairs that he’s ill-equipped to handle. He gets offered brand deals for commercials, but ultimately decides to take a course in how to write a Hallmark movie. It’s happened: John Wilson has sold out. Splurging through his modest financing while on a trip to Rome, Wilson notes how the Pantheon is preserved through the centuries, while NYC’s concrete sidewalks and infrastructure are rapidly crumbling. Through Wilson’s various detours and asides, it’s easy to see what he’s getting at: the impermanence of infrastructure mimics his own existential anxieties about the impermanence of his craft. After having a successful show, the royalties begin to diminish; the rapid pace at which we consume media has left his show to gather dust and fade away into the ephemera. It’s only trite, formulaic Hallmark movies that grow their audience. Similarly, concrete, with its specific mixture of cement, water, sand, and a variety of other balanced ingredients, has seen its quality diminish; what could once last several lifetimes is now produced en masse with little regard for its durability. Rather, it’s purposefully reduced to its most vital elements, with the intention of replacing its shoddiness many times over in our lifetime. Is capitalism ever uttered? No, but at its heart, it’s the understood friction at play. Or as another prominent New Yorker put it so eloquently: we have monetized dysfunction.
Among his litany of anthropological diversions, Wilson observes the cyclical patterns we find ourselves in, including a 52-day marathon on concrete, in which NYC runners attempt to traverse 3,000 miles by running the same square block, day in and day out. It’s a harsh, unforgiving circle we find ourselves running around, where the choice seems to be between enduring or cutting corners. As Wilson’s financial struggles continue to accumulate, he finds himself drinking more, befriending a lout of a musician with an ill-defined past. It’s here that the film, admittedly, loses me a bit, where the narrative threads dangle and Wilson asks his audience to simply accept the inevitability of life’s disappointments. Late-stage capitalism, a lack of access to resources, our collective refusal to confront climate change—all of those spirit-sapping dreads that one person cannot confront on their own—are simply part of the apparatus of being alive right now. The foundation is indeed cracked and beyond repair. Wilson posits that, when confronted with this brutalist reality, all we really have is each other. He attends the funeral of his friend’s ex-partner and hears of her vast accomplishments, while that same friend jettisons to play a gig instead. There’s also the Buddhist insistence on accepting the ephemerality of our existence.
Wilson’s art may not survive. I think he understands this. And I’m not sure if he’s totally okay with that. He has made friends along the way. His contemporaries, like Fielder and Robinson, have survived and thrived by allowing their forms to evolve. The History of Concrete is, like Wilson’s show, destined to slowly recede from my memory, grain of sand by grain of sand. And I think he’s okay with that. And I’ll certainly still be there for his next picture, even as I find myself wanting a bit more from the kind-hearted goof who says “wow” at life’s surprises.