When we look at the images gliding across the screen, mirror-like, we see human figures and we look for our selves in them.
I haven’t made it over the rainbow—I don’t know that I ever can—but there it glistens in the periphery, beckoning.
Favreau’s rewriting of The Jungle Book attuned me to the messier lines from then to now, to the somewhat less straight lines of the original itself, to its other curves and undulations, to its other reverberations.
Despite the humor of The Apartment, Baxter’s relationship with the city is one of profound disconnection.
In his art, Prince was America’s answer to Schopenhauer—he was a lightning rod, an earworm, an internal monologue from outside.
Is identity a stable thing we reference, express, and discover, or a fluid thing that we actively craft all the time?
Sheila O'Malley and Chad Perman discuss Sidney Lumet's Running on Empty.
