Several of the recent Whitney Biennials have aspired to something more than a display of "the latest in American Art," to cite the phrase used to advertise the current show.
"This is a book written in the presence of music." So begins Geoffrey
O'Brien's sprawling memoir-cum-critical essay, and the reader is tempted
to ask: What book isn't?
Antiquarian mishmash lathers the April screen. In Kill Bill Vol.
In early 1966, Leonard
Bernstein threw a birthday party for Dmitri Shostakovich in Lincoln
Center's Philharmonic Hall.
Since I'm from California, I sometimes dare to dispute the seemingly popular East Coast belief that my home state is a cultural wasteland.
A rough but accurate gauge of national resilience: When dictators fall, how soon do filmmakers rise again? In the case of Argentina, the recovery was impressively quick.
Toward the end of January, I received an invitation to a press opening for "Manet and the Sea," at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
The last few years have seen renewed interest in the Weathermen.
Not wanting to curse Charlie Kaufman with too much praise, I'm tempted to say that his nonexistent twin Donald is the best American screenwriter since Preston Sturges.
Courtney Love's new record is called America's Sweetheart. Take that. It's a name that has been used facetiously by the press to describe her.