A brief weekly round-up of a few good things.
Lord Byron's biographer has translated some letters from Lord Byron's boyfriend.
Winter behaving like winter. I know it's a pain in the ass but I'm so happy to have some seasonal normalcy.
The nine circles of artist housing hell.
A couple months old, but Ben Whishaw in the Criterion Closet is, in a word, adorable.
All aboard the Night Train.
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;