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tiny love story/New York Times Sunday Oct 22, 2023
October 24, 2023
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It looks like a hole in the world. Among many other thoughts, that’s what struck me when I finally got a chance to see the 9/11 Memorial Plaza few weeks back. Symbols exist for a reason, and the architects of our country’s newest grief repository have hit on just the right one; it’s hard not…
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Melky Cabrera… …and Donna McKechnie (all roads lead to musical theater, dontcha know…)
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First Jason Collins and now Michael Sam: the pro-sports glass ceiling has been broken, ushering in waves of support and (no surprise) standard-issue good ol’ American homophobia. Check out the media weigh-ins on CNN and the New Yorker, and don’t forget: when you express your happiness by kissing a loved one, by all means “think…
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On screen, onstage, in concert: here’s some stuff I got to see last week. Only Lovers Left Alive (Jim Jarmusch, director). What could be more modern? Two lovers live on opposite sides of the continent; when Adam (Tom Hiddleston), a legendary rock star recluse holed up in Detroit, becomes suicidal, his lady, Eve (the tres elegant…
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We go to the theater to renew our ties to the world. Sometimes we’re reminded of things, lives, people we used to know, or feelings we’ve tucked away long ago. When it’s working, a play can unearth those buried treasures, though the effect isn’t always pleasant. At a recent performance of Mothers and Sons, a…
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Calling him the Master wouldn’t begin to cover it. He was everything you’d want in a character actor. He could be funny and tragic, often at once (Capote); he could be imperious or blustery (The Master), yet he was capable of conveying great tenderness and vulnerability (as the lovelorn techie in Boogie Nights, and as…
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There’s a certain slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the heft Of cathedral tunes Emily Dickinson Winter is the cruelest season, though for me it’s not so much about the cold (though we’ve had our chilly moments, this time of year our apartment often feels like summer). What kills me is the darkness. …
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I could think of no greater tribute than posting some works of Barbara Kruger, many of which read like metaphors for the state of closetness. A toast…to self.
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