If you didn't know that Lena Dunham just published a new memoir (her second), then you probably weren't reading the New York Times last week. In the space of approximately 24 hours, the Grey Lady churned out a review, a David Marchese interview*, a think piece,
When I finally gave in and bought a Criterion Channel subscription a couple of years ago, I readied myself for a steady diet of what a friend once referred to as broccoli movies, meaning movies that are good for you. Obscure European art house cinema, Golden Age Hollywood gems, the
When I was younger, I prided myself at not being a cryer. I didn't cry at movies, didn't cry over songs or commercials, except that one Sarah McLachlan did for the ASPCA. Crying in front of other people felt like an indignity, an unwelcome confession of
This Monday, my editor sent out the first blurb requests for my novel Small Kingdoms, which is scheduled to be published next June. I was cc'd on the requests, and their appearance in my inbox invoked equal parts excitement and anxiety. Because to me, this marked the moment
Twelve days ago, I turned 50 years old. It is surreal to write those words. I don't feel 50, but then I don't know what one is supposed to feel like at 50. When I was a child, 50 was 100. When I was 30, it
I belong to that subset of masochists who watch the Oscars beginning to end, year after year without fail. I once even found a way to watch when I was staying at a youth hostel in New Zealand, which was no small feat in the days before smartphones. I do
A brief weekly round-up of some good things this week. Some (spot-on) thoughts about the fancy-bathhouse trend. The Angelika Film Center was named after an actual woman named Angelika Saleh. Unfortunately she just passed, but this story about her is fascinating. I'm a big Rufi Thorpe fan and
I am very late to the Heated Rivalry party, and that is because I resisted it until last week. On paper, the tale of two gay hockey players is tailor-made for me; there's a reason my friend Gautam likes to call me a fruit fly.** But in practice,
A brief weekly round-up of some things that are good. This week I learned that, per the photo above, John Steinbeck was not only a towering figure of 20th-century literature, but also pretty hot! (Thanks to Laura for inadvertently alerting me to this fact.) As if I couldn't
It was towards the end of "Wuthering Heights" that I began to suspect I was going to hell, no matter that Jews don't believe in it. Cathy was on her death bed, expiring from septicemia, and Heathcliff was professing his love and sorrow. The woman next
A weekly round-up of some things that are good. The U.S. women's hockey team declined Trump's invitation to come visit him not once but twice because they know that they (and we) deserve better. Claire Keegan is a stone-cold boss of the novella, and Foster
Hello from the aftermath of the Great New York Snowpocalypse. There's almost two feet of snow on my balcony, but we're still in the grace period before the city turns to a noxious soup of blackened slush and uncollected dog shit, so for now, it'