Category Archives: TV/Movies

Your Morning Cup of Links

“But what really works about Houston — and about America — is that line of guys saying, ‘I have a bass boat, a raincoat, and some rope — what can I do to help?’ There’s no army in the world that can replace that, and no amount of treasure that can buy it.”

The American Genius of Twin Peaks“But for all its ethereal whooshing and surrealist impressionism, this season of Twin Peaks is some of Lynch’s most grounded, humane, and contemporary work.”

Surfing religiously

Correct

My alma mater’s handling of its symbols has just been embarrassing.

LMAO

Four art biographies to read this autumn

Bacon’s lost pope

A delightful and affectionate history of the American cocktail (which the government almost killed)

A new collection of letters between Tolstoy and his wife, Tolstaya, casts light on the couple’s difficult and complex relationship

Does this mark the end of Spain’s three-hour lunch breaks?

How Artsy convinced galleries to sell fine art online

The drawings of the Old Masters

The Negroni fools no one – it’s easy to make and contains nothing but booze”

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Filed under Art, History, Politics, TV/Movies, Uncategorized

Poem for the Week

I know I’ve posted this poem before (probably the last time I watched Splendor In The Grass), but we finished watching the Showtime series “Penny Dreadful” (which I highly recommend) over the weekend and so it brought it to mind again. (If you haven’t watched the show and plan to, don’t watch the video below, it contains spoilers.)

Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

By William Wordsworth

The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
(Wordsworth, “My Heart Leaps Up”)

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy.

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there’s a Tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone;
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul’s immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

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Filed under Poetry, TV/Movies

Afternoon Links

The real reason Jeff Bezos grinds Trump’s gears

Truly the dumbest time to be alive. (But please let there be a Confederate general named Dick Vitale.)

The cost of leaving is too high and the cost of winning is too high, so we’re stuck in this stalemate…forever, apparently.

Is ‘slow art’ the next big art movement?

Yes! Now I can’t wait for Christmas.

A must-read: “Down Syndrome Speaks”

Remember: never, ever go to Mexico.

What a disgrace

Italy’s brutal calcio storico tournament

Food at the Tour de France

Is cultural appropriation ever appropriate? (Yes.)

Inside Facebook’s moderation center in Berlin

“For a day, our political troubles were eclipsed”

Nancy Pelosi flunks Constitutional law

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Filed under Around the World, Art, Politics, TV/Movies, Uncategorized, Unusually Stupid Primates

Your Morning Cup of Links

How to sell a Frank Lloyd Wright house

Oh FFS. Everyone has lost their goddamn minds.

Focused like a laser on the REAL problem with the NYC transit system!

Stop laughing stop laughing stop laughing

Jahiruddin, though uneducated, was an adept politician, fresh from winning a hard-fought local election. During our conversations, he would often break into rousing, patriotic speeches about truth and justice, thumping the plastic table in emphasis and making it jump. The effect was somewhat tarnished by his Tourette’s syndrome, which caused him to interject the word “penis” at regular intervals.

Today in “if Obama did it”

Secret Service Director Randolph “Tex” Alles, in an interview with USA TODAY, said more than 1,000 agents have already hit the federally mandated caps for salary and overtime allowances that were meant to last the entire year. The agency has faced a crushing workload since the height of the contentious election season, and it has not relented in the first seven months of the administration. Agents must protect Trump – who has traveled almost every weekend to his properties in Florida, New Jersey and Virginia – and his adult children whose business trips and vacations have taken them across the country and overseas.

Anger and honor in The Iliad

Seeing beyond Giacometti’s bronzes

Robert Burns may have written a lot of prose, but what matters are his songs.

What kids want from poetry

The metaphysics of the hangover

Raphael up close

“The people have spoken, and now they must be punished.”

Trump, being Trump, adds his own chaos to the mix: his petulant schoolboy tweeting, his Queeg-and-the-strawberries press conferences, his penchant for surrounding himself with nutcases like Steve Bannon and his gormless children and in-laws. If what you want is chaos, then Donald J. Trump — a retired game-show host who apparently believes there were “a lot of good people” at a neo-Nazi rally that ended with a political murder — is your man. You could hardly do better.

Suspenseful silence: Hitchcock’s first hit speaks volumes

10 documentaries every art lover should watch

Oldest known photo of a U.S. President for sale

Who are the Scandinavians?

 

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Afternoon Links

Explaining Trump’s Charlottesville behavior

How DARPA shaped modern life

What Philip Larkin’s personal objects tell us about the poet

Why I love album rock (I refuse to call it progressive rock) in a nutshell: “Not only did prog lyricists eschew the themes of resentment and cynicism we find in other rock music, but the musicians drew from more staid traditions of classical music and even Anglican hymns…In one of the most infamous sections in The Closing of the American Mind, Allan Bloom complained that young people were listening only to rock music and not to classical music—and that rock music appealed exclusively to the passions, leaving no room for refined, more rationally guided sentiment. Bloom’s assessment of rock music could not be less true of prog, with its elaborate concept albums and musical complexity—to say nothing of the way it was influenced by and carried forth the tradition of European classical music. Here was music that was challenging to compose and to enjoy, and that did not appeal exclusively to the passions…The rise of prog rock shows that it is possible to have artistically ambitious and intellectually sophisticated modern music that embraces and draws on rather than rebelling against artistic tradition.”

“Smartphones are destroying my generation”

Meet Nevada’s ‘cow cops’

Why kids can’t write

Trump’s horrifying ‘Take 3’ on Charlottesville: the press conference of the alt-right’s dreams

Why Hollywood stopped making John Grisham movies

“The vulgar manliness of Donald Trump”

A great David Brooks column on how to roll back fanaticism. Here’s an excerpt:

We’re living in an age of anxiety. The country is being transformed by complex forces like changing demographics and technological disruption. Many people live within a bewildering freedom, without institutions to trust, unattached to compelling religions and sources of meaning, uncertain about their own lives. Anxiety is not so much a fear of a specific thing but a fear of everything, an unnamable dread about the future. People will do anything to escape it.

Donald Trump is the perfect snake oil salesman for this moment. He lacks inwardness and therefore is terrified by the possibility of anxiety. He has been escaping self-scrutiny his whole life and has become a genius at the self-exculpating rationalization. He took a nation beset by uncertainty and he gave it a series of “explanations” that were simple, crude, affirming and wrong.

Trump gave people a quick pass out of anxiety. Everything could be blamed on foreigners, the idiotic elites. The problems are clear, and the answers are easy. He has loosed a certain style of thinking. The true link between the Trump administration and those pathetic loons in Charlottesville is not just bigotry, but also conspiracy mongering.

The age of anxiety inevitably leads to an age of fanaticism, as people seek crude palliatives for the dizziness of freedom. I’m beginning to think the whole depressing spectacle of this moment — the Trump presidency and beyond — is caused by a breakdown of intellectual virtue, a breakdown in America’s ability to face evidence objectively, to pay due respect to reality, to deal with complex and unpleasant truths. The intellectual virtues may seem elitist, but once a country tolerates dishonesty, incuriosity and intellectual laziness, then everything else falls apart.

In fact, the most powerful answer to fanaticism is modesty. Modesty is an epistemology directly opposed to the conspiracy mongering mind-set. It means having the courage to understand that the world is too complicated to fit into one political belief system. It means understanding there are no easy answers or malevolent conspiracies that can explain the big political questions or the existential problems.

The vanishing world of the Transylvanian aristocracy

Highland retreats

Ezra Pound’s asylum years

One of the world’s most confounding literary mysteries may finally be, in part, solved

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Afternoon Links

Idea: Don’t do a live-action version. It will be garbage, like all the others have been.

Today in things that shouldn’t have to be explained, but apparently do because Americans have lost their minds

It’s been sad to watch Tucker Carlson’s descent to idiot carnival barker troll. He’s smarter than this, but Trumpism corrupts.

Lol

Game of Thrones: A Game For Our Time

Great job, everyone!

More high school teachers are handing out A’s. But the bad news is that students aren’t necessarily learning more. Recent findings show that the proportion of high school seniors graduating with an A average — that includes an A-minus or A-plus — has grown sharply over the past generation, even as average SAT scores have fallen. In 1998, it was 38.9%. By last year, it had grown to 47%.

That’s right: Nearly half of America’s Class of 2016 are A students. Meanwhile, their average SAT score fell from 1,026 to 1,002 on a 1,600-point scale — suggesting that those A’s on report cards might be fool’s gold.

When did people lose the ability to sit still and silent and focus on one thing for a couple hours? How hard is that? Are we all infants now?

“But we don’t live on an alternate earth, one in which almost any other 2016 Republican candidate for president was elected. We live on this earth, and on Monday, the day that the health-care bill died, the new president was literally playing around in a firetruck on the White House lawn.”

Is film serious art?

Spanish police recover three stolen Francis Bacon paintings

How Pixar lost its way

The return of Italy’s pipe organs

The bizarre world of the Guardian newspaper

Why do we love Jane Austen? Because of her timeless morality.

A history of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth in art

How religion shaped London and its architecture

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Filed under Art, History, Politics, Religion, TV/Movies, Uncategorized

Video of the Day

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Filed under TV/Movies, Video of the Day