Review
Margaret Atwood’s novel turns out to have been far more clairvoyant than even she believed it would be.
Cynthia Nixon is a great Emily Dickinson, so deeply angry, so heartbreaking in her fool’s life of stoic suffering.
Sara Baume’s sophomore novel insists that we rethink the value of empathy: depend on it, yes, but also be suspicious.
J.S. Bach has been subjected to every imaginable kind of transcription, but the combination of mandolin, bass, and cello is probably new.
While calling this Ben Wheatley’s most violent film may be debatable, Free Fire is absolutely the one most riddled with gunshots.
What could easily have become a dense, jargon-filled work of cultural psychology instead reads like a thoughtful conversation.
Martín Espada’s lyricism sings deeply in the key of loss, turning the anguish of social and personal histories into hope.
Was this trip really necessary?
Paradise‘s central conflict and the performances in the Underground Railway Theater production are damn good.
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