The seemingly unremarkable experience of showing an audience characters talking or just going about their lives may, given the current state of American movies, be something close to defiance.
I’m here to recommend a hot evening alone with them. I will justify the profane and disingenuous tone of this review by hipping you to four great performances of four great pieces of music.
For readers familiar with the Search, Weber’s study has the feel of both a delicious guilty-pleasure read and a penetrating, clear-sighted piece of literary commentary.
For Kushner, everything is admissible–not just Romy’s state of mind but also her victim’s, and even the internal chatter of the girl whose tattoo instructed Romy to pipe down.
There is a deep communion between artist and translator in these subtle, nuanced, fiercely economic poems.
The primary value of this extensive set, and others like it, is its ability to remind us of–or set forth to some for the first time–the achievements of the New York Philharmonic in its glorious past.
What happens next–after he locks eyes with the waitress who stumbles carrying a tray to a nearby table–is neither the first nor the last blatant cliché Phantom Thread as if magically redeems.
Baum expertly reads the ways conflicting ideas are often at the root of many of our personal anxieties–the paranoid Jew and the anti-Semite often lurk, bound together, within each of us.
A central problem for this novel is how to convey the banality of existence without mimetically reproducing it. Eloquent commentary is key, and Pierce (or Jim) provides a fair amount.
“The body” rarifies one of the most elemental facts of being human and the basic requirement of most poetic gifts: the ability to perceive the world around us through our senses.
R. Clifton Spargo
Happy to substitute gawking estimations of the heroin-troubled singer’s biography for engagement with the music, too many listeners fail to read him right.
As the Washington Post reporter Ben Bagdikian in Steven Spielberg’s The Post, Bob Odenkirk wears dress shirts that are not quite white and not quite beige, not quite green and not quite yellow.
Thus told, the opening gambit of The Burning Girl seems painfully conventional. But rapidly the plot thickens, and veers toward the more idiosyncratic brand of psychological drama that one has come to expect from Messud.
Bidart’s tendency, swept up in divided ceaseless revolt, is to expand.
All the operas are worth hearing: all reminders of yet another lost age and of what has been lost with it.
Norman Maclean told me that he had realized only when it was too late that after A River Runs Through It was published he should have taken at least six months off to celebrate.