Timothée Chalamet Is a Dream ‘Saturday Night Live’ Host

This week’s Saturday Night Live host, Timothée Chalamet, rode away with the show on his beloved tiny horse—in various costumes including a white boy rapper’s balaclava, a failed musician’s soul patch, and Troye Sivan’s little red undies. He rapped, he danced, he dapped, he read us a bedtime story, he broke after getting a spanking from Kenan Thompson’s Cornel West for being a naughty Smokecheddadaasssgetta. Somebody in wardrobe is already stitching this boy a five-timer smoking jacket because of how smooth and game a sketch comedy performer he is.

Chalamet took the steps down to the stage in one exuberant leap, looking beautiful in black and gold, equal parts curl and cheekbone. And now that the SAG strike is over, he was free to discuss more than his new perfume commercial for Martin Scorsese. “Come with me,” he beckoned to the audience in old-timey sing song, “and you’ll be in a world of shameless self-promotion.” Wonka Wonka Wonka Fandango Hugh Grant. Marcello Hernandez, the rising hunk of the cast, interrupted Chalamet with an invitation to switch gears. So from “Pure Imagination,” we seesawed to two guys rapping about how we shouldn’t be misled by their baby faces. “Childlike demeanor, but I’m full grown,” promised Chalamet. “I got trapped in her boobies, got my ass Home Alone!”

Later, we went behind the scenes of finding just the right narrator for the audio book of Britney Spears’ memoir The Woman in Me. (I would give just about anything for a transcript of the actual opening phone call from Michelle Williams’ agent pitching her the idea.) In rapid fire, SNL hit us with impressions of ingeniously absurd candidates. Hats off to Molly Kearney’s wordless, sheepish Kevin James. Cheers to Chloe Fineman’s Natasha Lyonne, though I’d have been just as delighted if the camera had merely lingered on the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Bravo to Bowen Yang’s Fred Schneider from the B-52s, shaking his maracas, and Fineman’s drowsy, mouth full of gum Julia Fox. But the trophy here goes to James Austin Johnson’s Werner Herzog, droning from under the sea about NSYNC’s fascination with hip hop culture. “I am entranced by this Floridian vernacular,” his Herzog sighed with affect.

You could feel a collective gasp rise from the beds and sofas of hipsters across the nation when Chalamet reunited with the Claymation horse he’d loved and lost in his original hosting visit. “There he is, my tiny horse!” serenaded Chalamet. Alas, Tiny Horse had exploded in size under the influence of an evil emperor bent on destroying humanity—using Chalamet’s cheekbones as lightning rods. Once the clay buddy was reminded of his pure and noble heart, peace and order were restored, and Tiny Horse was honored with his own bumper for the episode.