“Mad Men” gets all manner of undeserved attention. Yet I attend to it.
If Plato had known of mind meld, you can be sure he would have applied to be a Vulcan.
It’s notable and heartening when informed critical opinion manages to stop a juggernaut in its tracks.
I don’t understand why the ICA has made the mistake of allotting a one man show to Barry McGee.
What is Harvard Square today but a shopping spree waiting to happen, a student lounge, a food court? What could a novel gain by being set in that venue?
Part of what made “The Dream Merchant” so compelling, and at times, harrowing, a read for me are its themes: love, loss, rags and riches, to be sure, but also the theme of aging, and associated loss of power and possibility.
Israel has genuine enemies without, to be sure. But “The Gatekeepers” leaves the impression that it has no less mortal an enemy within.
But there’s something else going on in “Mad Men,” all the more because it’s latent, unannounced, episode by episode. It’s this thing about art and advertising, and the difference, circa that era, if any.
The once proudly and authentically counter-cultural paper The Boston Phoenix went out ugly, fawning on mobster Whitey Bulger.
It’s not a simple story. It’s a story about dreadful ideas, hideous politics and their interaction with art and aesthetic judgment.