Arts Reviews

I am on record as being somewhere between weary and terrified of the threatened arrival of Downton Abbey 2 in our movie theaters imminently. But this is also tinged with sadness. When Julian Fellowes emerged with his screenplay for Robert Altman’s Gosford Park in 2001, it fizzed with wit and imagination. Now, he has seemingly become the go-to chronicler of English upper-class life, churning out increasingly nonsensical variants on the same story with greatly diminishing returns. So how does he fare when he turns his attention to American upper-class life? The new HBO series The Gilded Age attempts to answer this question. It primarily concerns two New York figures in the 1880s, who are schematically represented as "snobbish Old Money" and "arriviste New Money.

Public fallouts between major music stars are far from unheard of, but the speed and ferocity of the recent contretemps between Damon Albarn and Taylor Swift is a reminder that, in this social media age, arguments can go viral in seconds. The initial cause of the row was an interview that Albarn gave to the Los Angeles Times. The Blur and Gorillaz star, presenting himself as an elder statesman of the industry, decried Swift as one of a breed of artists who use "sound and attitude" to conceal thin songwriting. For good measure, he then alleged that these songs were not even written by Swift. After the interviewer suggested that Swift wrote or co-wrote all her songs, he said, "That doesn’t count. I know what co-writing is. Co-writing is very different to writing.

Recently, the Golden Globes were handed out in the most low-key fashion imaginable. Gone are the days of glitzy, alcohol-laden bashes, complete with Ricky Gervais making near-the-knuckle digs at Hollywood icons, who look as if they’d happily knock him down. Instead the results this year were announced in that most pandemic-friendly of ways: via the Hollywood Foreign Press Association’s social media feed. It was socially distanced, devoid of any potential for gossip or scandal — two qualities forever associated with the Globes — and deeply boring. The results themselves were mainly sensible.

This summer will mark the tenth anniversary of The Avengers, the superhero mash-up film that arguably kicked off the endless rolling shenanigans that now dominate our multiplex screens year after year. Nonetheless, it remains one of the more entertaining examples of its kind, thanks to its witty script by writer-director Joss Whedon. One might expect to find Whedon and company reunited for various examples of backslapping bonhomie over the next few months, except that the filmmaker is now persona non grata to the highest extent. The stories about his downfall are well known, and include allegations of bullying, sexual exploitation and general maltreatment of colleagues and former employees alike.

Radicals often think of writing primarily as an act of provocation — a bullet in the chest of the bourgeoisie. No doubt, writing can provoke, and one doesn’t need to be a radical to know this, as any reader of Tom Wolfe will tell you. But to provoke in writing, particularly literary writing, is at once to provoke and to conserve a provocation. To write is a tacit acknowledgment that something is worth keeping. Otherwise, one could simply shout. What else does writing conserve? All sorts of things, of course, but in literature, it conserves feelings, perceptions, the lives and actions of people or a way of life. It conserves ideas that one hopes won’t be burned to a crisp on the streets of Avignon.

The hit series Emily in Paris is being eviscerated by the media. Despite labeling it “Netflix’s most-hated show,” “a catastrophe of culture,” and “inedible tripe,” high-minded critics sure are spending a lot of time and website space talking about it. I am all about scrutinizing art (if we can call Emily “art”) to extract something meaningful. But in the following analysis, I will argue why we should absolutely stop analyzing Emily in Paris. First of all, I don’t understand why critics are disappointed not to find the answer to some weighty Descartian theory in a show whose descriptor reads: “After landing her dream job in Paris, Chicago marketing exec Emily Cooper embraces her adventurous new life while juggling work, friends and romance.

He was in living rooms across America dishing out fatherly advice. He had a cheery disposition while watching people bite the dust or get socked in the groin. He was a phenomenal comedian. He was Bob Saget. The Philadelphia native and comedy icon passed away unexpectedly on January 9 and left the country stunned. Bob was a figure you always thought would be around forever. There were so many nights we spent watching Bob as Danny Tanner navigate the seemingly impossible job of single fatherhood. For nine years, we watched him and his TV family grow up. We grew with them. Memories of Full House are burned into the minds of all who watched and loved him. He was a big part of so many American families' bonding experiences, which is one reason his death was so devastating to so many.

The actor Sidney Poitier, who has died at the age of ninety-four — a month shy of his ninety-fifth birthday — has justifiably been celebrated as one of the last remaining actors from "Old Hollywood." Poitier continued to act until 1997, with his final role being a somewhat anti-climatic appearance as an FBI director in the indifferent remake of The Day of the Jackal. But his heyday came in the Fifties and Sixties, when he established himself as the first bona fide African-American box office draw and a performer of rare force and charisma.

I sat down to watch Adam McKay’s Netflix comedy Don’t Look Up over the Christmas break with an unusual burden of expectation. Half the people I’d known who had seen it — admittedly, mainly those on the right — had denounced it as unfunny, heavy-handed agitprop, whereas their politically opposed brethren praised it as "timely," "inspiring" and "important." Would I finish watching it and sign up for a series of Greta Thunberg podcasts, or smash my television in and take to the streets, hollering? To be honest, the film is neither offensive nor clever enough to arouse such strong opinions.