According to IMDb, Harrison Ford has 87 acting credits to his name. Any actor is bound to appear in a stinker or two*, especially over the course of such a long career. When I decided to dedicate this week's newsletter to one of Harrison's worst movies,
When we talk about the physical appearance of movie stars, it's often within the context of what doesn't appear. Namely, discernible flaws. Scars, veins, cysts, enlarged pores, the pitted ghosts of teenage acne—the only place those have in Hollywood is on character actors.* But Harrison
The nice thing about having a newsletter—and arguably the only reason to have one—is that you get to write about anything you want. And that is why I've decided that the rest of July is Harrison Ford Month at the Marx-Ennui Reader. July, after all,
One of the things I like most about being laid off from a food publication is that I'm no longer expected to have an opinion about The Bear. I watched the show's first season with both fervor and admiration; the second with more admiration than fervor;
A couple of weeks ago my friend Kathryn asked me, "What's up with all the frozen yogurt here?" I'm paraphrasing because I can't remember exactly how she posed the question. But I do remember the look of real concern on her face.
It has been ten months and ten days since I was laid off from Eater. During that time I have applied for more jobs than I can remember; gotten a grand total of two actual interviews and one (unpaid) edit test that took me three days to complete; been ghosted
Last week I did what I do every couple of years or so and re-watched A Room With a View. I first watched the movie in high school, several years after it came out in 1985. Its effect on me was that of a lit match on gasoline: it
I took a break from this newsletter last week because I was getting my author photo taken. As someone who loathes being photographed I was more or less dreading the experience, but the photographer was wonderful and I'm happy. Before getting my photo taken I spent time looking
Something that I used to have to think about more or less all the time when I was still employed in food media was the question of what was best. The best bakery, the best restaurant, the best bar, the best all-day cafe, the best bagel/pizza/breakfast sandwich/
I'm a bit out of sorts right now. To explain why would be tedious for all of us. That said, I can assign some of my mood to this Monday's Met Gala, or more precisely the act of looking at pictures of it. Obscene wealth, when
Last week my friend Zoe texted me with sad news: The Islands, a Brooklyn restaurant specializing in Caribbean food, had closed. It was a beloved, unassuming spot on Washington Avenue, a mom-and-pop shop with a legendarily relaxed vibe that translated to unpredictable delivery times. I last went there
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,