I don't really like this strategy—not everybody gets to go to Cannes, or even NYFF (especially at The L, where even I have to pick my spots)—but I see the appeal. (If I recall, voters in the indiewire poll were mostly just confused.) This year, The IFC Center is doing something a little different, offering buzzer-beating runs to five subtitled movies (so far), mostly from IFC Films, less to make the most of 2010 fest-circuit momentum than as now-or-never propositions for films that are mostly leftovers.
It's all very funny, but this is of course a very serious matter.
Yesterday one aging emblem of never-ending childlike wonder visited another when Paul Reubens (Pee-Wee Herman, in leather) dropped by the corner of Bowery and Houston, where Kenny Scharf (in hoodie) was hard at work and nearing completion of his new mural. Curbed was on the scene to watch two worlds of nostalgia collide.
Before the holiday break, we reported that the developer behind Williamsburg's gargantuan Domino development, CPCR, might not have the money to move forward, and might be forced to seek a new business partner. The project's spokesman, Richard Edmonds, recently responded.
“As we’ve always said would be the case for the construction phases of the project," he wrote in an e-mail, "we’re in the process of raising funds and seeking a development partner."
The Bad Sex in Fiction Award did consider a work of nonfiction for the first time, the Guardian reveals in its report, looking closely at Tony Blair's new mem before concluding "that the passage was too brief to merit it."
The winning passages from Rowan Somerville's The Shape of Her, courtesy again the Guardian, after the jump. It may be slightly NSFW, unless your W is a S place for rhythmically seesawing verbs and copious animal similies:
FIPS and Eaters Digest NYC Present:
BK HOOKUP'S 2nd Annual NAUGHTY HOLIDAY OFFICE PARTY
WEDNESDAY, DEC. 8, 7-11PM
THE BELL HOUSE
149 7th Street, Brooklyn, NY
I prefer his earlier collaborations with Angelo Badalamenti (a bit of which you can see here beginning at about 5:30), frankly, but "Good Day Today," which David Lynch has just dropped, apparently, is at least a passable iteration of recent trends in rudimentary retro synthpop-textures given a mellow effects wash-over. And his usual sense of cryptic lyrical yearning is evident in the lyrics. Did he auto-tune his vocals, or just sing them backwards and rewind them? Be sure to listen at least up until the "Paper Planes" part at 2:03.
I swear to Jesus H. Christ in a glass box on Wyckoff Street that this is a real thing, and not just content reverse-engineered by the will of SEO algorithms made animate.
We were devoted fans of The A.V. Club's Undercover series around here, and to our delight, they're at it again—only this time, rather than forcing bands to choose a cover song from a pre-assembled list, they're simply requiring that whatever song they choose be somehow related to Christmas. For the first installment, they've got The Walkmen covering "Holiday Road," and it's a perfectly enjoyable introduction to the series, what with the Santa hats and all. Now that I think about it, though, they would have been much better off with one of the more melancholy Christmas songs, like, say... this. Also, I really hope someone covers this. And this, obviously. And also a million others, which we'll talk about quite a bit in these next few weeks. I am already crying.
Packed like a cannon with all manner of satiric shrapnel, hubbub, terror, brio and Surrealist invention, Alexei German Sr.’s fabled, never-released-here 1998 monstrosity Khrustaliov, My Car! was only the fifth film the neglected Russian master made in 40 years, but if you were to distill out his films into character threads, narrative secrets and visual energy, you’d have the equivalent of a busy Soderbergh-sized oeuvre. Absurdist to the point of derangement and inhabited like a madhouse, the film touches down, like all of German’s, as a Soviet memory, of 1953 on the eve of Stalin’s death, and a bustling snow-covered village where the anti-Jewish purges are ongoing, and where a livin’-large Red Army general (Yuri Tsurilo) becomes targeted for inevitable Gulag exile.
Our new favorite street (road?) artist goes by The Tailor and turns the cab-hailing silhouettes on New York City taxi cab doors into famous people and characters, including Karl Lagerfeld, Mr. T, Zeus, Waldo, Wonder Woman, Lady Liberty (pictured) and so on. It's like bombing rich people's subways. Have you seen of his/her/their work riding around town? (ANIMAL)
Tired of not being available in the iTunes store? Single-function site Now on iTunes offers the next best thing: a customized, linked, illustrated and typographically accurate semblance of you (or anyone/thing/place) available on iTunes. Some surprising new arrivals in the iTunes store: MC Jesus, Bill Gates, The Sarkozys, The L and, of course, iTunes. (TheDailyWhat)
But the best advertisement for the movies are movie stars themselves. The best part of the Oscars—aside from the in-memoriam montage, obvs—is the otherworldly beauty and effervescent good-humored charm of major Hollywood stars, who all get together to share inside jokes as they celebrate each other, upon the completion of another successful year of representing America's most hopefully deluded image of itself. This is why people like watching the Golden Globes: it's like the Oscars but with stars of film and television getting drunk and friendly, just like us. The Academy seems to have taken note of all this: this year's Oscars will be hosted by the famous, young, beautiful and frequently smiling James Franco and Anne Hathaway. We predict that they will be very likable.
Housing Works rules. They may just be our favorite charity in the city (c'mon, you can buy supercheap books, clothes, furniture, all for a good cause: fighting AIDS and homelessness). So, every year they have a big ol' fashion bazaar bonanza in which over a million bucks worth of stuff goes on sale for 50-70 percent off. It's all about the deals, people. We sent videographer extraordinaire Emmanuel Cruz to check it out.
In January of 2008, the Brooklyn Paper reported on the Brooklyn Heights Cinema's expansion plans:
In Boardwalk Empire’s penultimate season one episode, we learn—minus any fanfare—that the Commodore is Jimmy’s father. That Jillian was 13 when the affair took place (and that Nucky was essentially her pimp) flavored this disclosure with a tasty bit of scandal, but at this point, it’s difficult to care. The discovery that someone has been poisoning the Commodore is pretty juicy, but the setup—a victim we barely know; suspects (like Jillian) we have only just learned had access to the Commodore—reads more like the opening scene of murder-mystery dinner theatre than the climax of a long dramatic season. (For the record, I think (hope?) the maid did it—she tried to take away that bowl of biscuits that Jimmy blames for making him sick). Believing along with everyone else that he is inches from death, the Commodore tells his son that “the wrong man is running Atlantic City.” Now that he is resurrected, how will the Commodore act on his belief?
About two months ago (?) I received a rare thing at the L Magazine offices—a handwritten letter. It was from a nice young man in New Jersey who was interested in getting into the writing game, specifically, I think, the magazine side of things. It was a good letter, and in the end he really just wanted some advice from me, as someone who's allegedly "made it"—advice I was more than happy to give (uh, be talented and work hard?).
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ugh, i don't know you but i love this and i am proud of you.