Review
The late Robert Brustein’s shadow is long. But his legacy is problematic.
In a time of outrage and grief, a trio of documentaries at the BJFF serve as a reminder of the traditional Jewish values of compassion and inclusion, reaffirming the power of activism, art, and simple acts of human kindness.
Goosebumps is pretty much a failure as a series because it lacks most of R.L. Stine’s entertaining alchemy.
My Morning Jacket remains one of rock’s best live acts, and a stylistically broad one. And more bands should be so generous in not only representing their entire catalog but mixing up the song selection every night.
The Chameleon Arts Ensemble shed new light on Ernest Chausson’s quartet in A major, Op. 30, the very model of Belle Époque verve and melodicism.
This thoughtful documentary watches cinemas vanish from a Brazilian city.
These three books celebrate different kinds of gifts: two from nature — and one that comes via the post office.
Even before the lights come up on the remarkable new production by Moonbox Productions, it is clear that this is a “Sweeney Todd” of a different order.
“Killers of the Flower Moon” is an exercise in kaleidoscopic, cubist storytelling that is, among other things, an epic on the art of the grift.
Strangely, Paul Landis makes no acknowledgment of the implications of the evidence he attests to, namely that neither Lee Harvey Oswald nor any other single gunman could have acted alone.
Arts Commentary: The Orchestra Gap — Europe vs. the US