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Writing about HBO’s new show The Idol is a trap. It wants desperately to be written about, packed to the brim with references to modern cultural debates and full of gratuitous sex and nudity. But for a show trying to satirize our modern landscape, The Idol is curiously stuck in the past.
*This article contains spoilers for Season 4 of Succession*
“Dearest Gentle Reader, this is the story of Queen Charlotte from Bridgerton. It is not a history lesson. It is fiction inspired by fact. All liberties taken by the author are quite intentional. Enjoy.”
From North and South Korean star–crossed lovers to blind dating CEOs, K–Dramas have covered every single possible love/drama/murder/mystery scenario one could ever think up. They demand addictive engagement— an hour of entertainment packed within each episode. They contain multiple storylines, introducing a variety of couples and family nuances while retaining the trademark Korean humor—that careful balance between dry comebacks and over–the–top reactions. They invoke second lead syndrome (warning: don’t watch Reply 1988 unless you want a severe case of this), where the main character doesn’t end up with the person you were rooting for. In other words, they’re incredibly entertaining.
Wherever we see it—from our favorite movies, TV shows, or news stories—Western media flaunts and glamorizes the “American Dream.” The story of rags to riches. The story of accumulating wealth through honest hard work. The story of owning your own house, driving a nice car, living in the suburbs, raising a couple of kids, and reaching a day when your descendants may also carry on this same lifestyle and legacy. This is also the story that tells communities of color to be grateful for the superficial representation that simplifies our stories into expendable, disposable moments for profit and exploitation. The elusive "American Dream" is the ultimate goal of many immigrants, coming to this country in hopes of a better life. Yet this ideology employs the Model Minority Myth to weaponize Asian Americans and other communities of color into uplifting systems of oppression and white supremacy.
An A24 film is defined by two unmatched qualities: surrealist art and realist relationships. Grounded in these A24 principles, Beef reveals the underbelly of humanity, ascribing a certain proposition to the audience: “anger is just a transitory state of consciousness.” And moreover: it’s okay to be angry.
After a hectic week of classes, I’m looking forward to one thing. Windows closed, dorm door locked, and computer brightness all the way down, I open up an incognito tab and navigate to my secret guilty pleasure: Outer Banks.
Belated and transient, the spring has finally decided to make its splashy appearance with the sunny days; summer, by extension, is just around the corner. Well away with the haze of the pandemic that has encroached upon the film and television industry for three years, this summer will undoubtedly offer everyone a splendid feast. For me, it’s anxiously waiting for a promised thrilling ride with Christopher Nolan’s cinematic sensation Oppenheimer or Pixar’s latest entry Elemental, while at the same time eagerly anticipating the premiere of arthouse gems like Ken Loach’s The Old Oak, Aki Kaurismäki’s Fallen Leaves, or Wang Bing’s Jeunesse. Though, arguably, there’s still the ordeal of finals week to survive, Street’s decided to offer you a treat of all the incoming blockbusters, returning series, and quirky originals that are set to premiere in summer 2023.
every episode of girls (hbo) is a aesop's fable, the moral of which is "wherever you go, there you are"
It may be hackneyed to say this, but college really does go by in a blink of an eye. One minute you’re shading your eyes on your New Student Orientation campus tour in 95 degree heat, maybe a little hungover. Four years go by and the next moment you’re scrolling through Indeed job listings in your first apartment. One thing is certain—grappling with adulthood is hard.
With the Madness that was March, I was reminded of a few of my favorite basketball movies. Basketball can be really fun to watch but its entertainment isn’t always guaranteed. A basketball movie, on the other hand, is essentially required to be entertaining. In terms of sports movies, you're bound to find a simple thrill anywhere you look within the genre, but I would argue that the basketball movie has the most to offer out of the bunch. There’s more than your average biopic or family–oriented redemption story, and even when the basketball movies employ those common conventions, they can still often prove to be novel or meaningful in some way. With that in mind, here are some basketball movies are either culturally significant or grossly overlooked in the popular conversation.
“Run. Run!” shouts Anna Torv’s Tess in episode 2 of The Last of Us. Ellie (Bella Ramsey) scrambles away, army—crawling out of the path of a rampaging, fungus—mottled zombie. She hides, waits for Joel (Pedro Pascal), and breathes shakily. And the second the two of them make a noise, the zombie comes at them again. Its face was clearly once human, but is now overrun by a fan–like pattern of mushrooms. Its colors, albeit muted in the dim light, are a fantastic mix of blues, oranges, and beiges, all toeing the line between believable naturalness and the disturbing unnaturalness of the undead. Its fungal gills, though made of liquid silicone or rubber, look like they grew deep in a haunted forest. If it wasn’t so terrifying, it would almost be beautiful.
Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery, The Gray Man, or earlier, Red Notice—these are what Netflix co–chief Ted Sarandos termed as “big event films” and supposedly represent the company’s (I hate to call it a film studio) path forward under a “bigger, better, fewer” refrain after its shocking earnings disclosure last April that resulted in a significant stock value loss. Deliciously packaged and advertised, these “big event films,” however, distressingly stand in every possible way at the opposite of the cinematic art, and I’m not comparing them to esoteric, erudite arthouse productions. Being innovative is an excessively high standard; they’re just not interesting or even entertaining.
Warning: This piece contains spoilers for the season finale of The Last of Us.
Two years ago, during the 20th anniversary of the stone–cold classic Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Ang Lee pondered how his sweeping epic had come to be. He realized that when deciding between making an action movie or a drama, he chose both. “I wanted it all,” Lee told Entertainment Weekly. “I didn’t realize I was upgrading a B–movie to A.”
The latest addition to the “Good for Her'' cinematic universe comes from an unlikely source. Alongside Midsommar’s Dani and Knives Out’s Marta, Cocaine Bear stands tall against the people trying to take her down. Now, the female protagonist is getting exactly what she wants: an insane amount of cocaine. Directed by Elizabeth Banks, the comedic thriller lives up to the genre by following the misadventures of the titular cocaine bear’s interactions with (and often slaughterings of) an assortment of characters. The film leans into the absurdity of the concept and remains self–aware throughout the entirety of its 95–minute run time.
Content warning: The following text describes sexual harassment and can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
At this year’s Oscars, the hit movie Everything Everywhere All at Once absolutely swept the house with seven total wins. Perhaps one of the most important moments was Michelle Yeoh being awarded the “Best Actress” title, becoming the first Asian woman to win this award after her well–rounded performance. As with any powerhouse win, this received both admiration and admonition by critics. Yet, above all criticism, one truth prevails: This movie gave a voice to experiences of deep rooted generational trauma and healing in a way that left viewers laughing, crying, and experiencing everything in between. Everything Everywhere All at Once is a new, stunning example of absurdist comedy as a dynamic and versatile genre.
The afternoon following an early screening of their newest movie, Somebody I Used to Know, writer–director Dave Franco and writer–lead actress Alison Brie crammed themselves and ten college kids around a small round table in a room on 19th Street. An interview with college journalists in the Philadelphia area was pretty different from the rest of the press junket the husband and wife duo have been attending; we didn’t make them read thirst tweets, for one thing. But Brie and Franco were full of smiles, well–spoken commentary about their movie and their careers, and good advice.
Titanic hasn’t aged a day since 1997. That’s not just because it still dominates cultural discourse (that damn door), or inspires popular parodies, or just became the third highest–grossing film ever (again!), but because it still somehow feels completely revolutionary. More than ever, it's the antithesis to “modern cinema,” which relishes in self–referential storytelling and superhuman power fantasies. Titanic may be big, but it displays a reverence for human emotion—and for human lives—that you’ll never find in a superhero movie. A restored version of the film in 3D has just returned to theaters, and it amplifies the ways in which Titanic was groundbreaking in the first place. It was Hollywood’s last completely inescapable original piece of drama, and there’s a reason it still resonates.
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