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Posts Tagged ‘Reviewing the Reviews’

All Hail Peter Schjeldahl!: in his latest bold pronunciation of life influencing the outputs of a writer.

My doctrine is wrong. Petey S. in the New Yorker has corrected the outlook of life upon art and we are none the better for it. Lately I’ve been getting my messages mixed from academe and the print media. I was impressed upon that life had no bearing upon art, and then this article schleps into my view. What a world. ūüė¶

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2014/02/03/140203crbo_books_schjeldahl

I will not even get into my hilarious, cushing view on the ‘work and life’ of this overly compensated deadbeat ‘writer’.

Adjudication:

Opaque

Evan Kerry 2014

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The Atlantic Monthly gushes, as their fave show crushes.

http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/02/-em-true-detective-em-the-best-show-on-tv/283727/

They tell us the how and the why of the thing that is True Detective.

Ostensibly, this show on HBO is the best thing going. Now why would I dare agree with that? I don’t. To say something is the best on the telly is telling how good your favorite brand of ketchup would be to my tongue. non compos mentis

The review/advert for the show is so chock full of unrepentant enthusiasm that I would rather not watch it after reading. I’m not going to muse over the difficulties I had with the review, this quote will suffice: “But while the pairing isn‚Äôt entirely new, it is nonetheless sublime.” For when one runs out of ideas or angles or anything original you must label something SUBLIME. One must¬†get just how sublime this showing of metaphysicality through police procedural drame is though. Only HBO, the top-tier of Television programming, apparently can muster such a review and such a fawning.

Transparent, A- for overall true to forminess

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How reviews in the current New Yorker display our acceptance yet disgust with the status quo, unremarkable proferring of the occasional best, and the communal longing for our own Golden Age

Here are the requisite links:

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/cinema/2013/12/16/131216crci_cinema_denby?currentPage=1

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/movies/2013/12/joel-ethan-coen-inside-llewyn-davis-reviewed.html?utm_source=tny&utm_campaign=generalsocial&utm_medium=facebook

Inside Llewyn Davis and American Hustle are reviewed above by the New Yorker. Which if read, leads one to believe they’re being cheated by Hollywood and the New Yorker. Where is¬†our golden age? We might shout this out and hear nothing, except this whine of a subtle notion that we are cheated by the formulaic genres now entombed on the screen for us each week. But if you consider that the Hollywood motion machine has been around a century and some change, you can then understand that this certain¬†contemporary vibe¬†is all a collective farce and the rule of thumb would then be: keep them happy and talking about¬†it.

How do we move forward from this sad state of affairs? I don’t know, nor care.

Verdict: The Utmost Transparency

Evan Kerry

2014

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Is attempting much, or being accused of¬†it, simply for the forced sophistication of doing it, too much to ask for? Regard this excerpt from John Kinsella on J. H. Prynne: “It is a strong example of the Prynne lyric in which tensions between external social, political, and economic forces and interior, personal, emotive, and reflective experience come into play. The tone is almost of a love poem, yet there is a darkish irony at work as well.”¬† I will take the world and my own world and grind them together, for the¬†smell of grinding gears?

When a piece of poetry is ground up then wound down it is painstakingly obvious to one. Why can’t we champion effortlessness, or the supple surface of serenity?

Here is the poem Kinsella is referring to.

Under her brow the snowy wing-case
      delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
          past loose glass in the door
      into the reflection of honour spread
through the incomplete, the trusted. So
      darkly the stain skips as a livery
of your pause like an apple pip,
      the baltic loved one who sleeps.
 
Or as syrup in a cloud, down below in
      the cup, you excuse each folded
cry of the finch’s wit, this flush
      scattered over our slant of the
          day rocked in water, you say
      this much. A waver of attention at
the surface, shews the arch there and
          the purpose we really cut;
      an ounce down by the water, which
 
in cross-fire from injustice too large
      to hold he lets slither
                                            from starry fingers
      noting the herbal jolt of cordite
and its echo: is this our screen, on some
      street we hardly guessed could mark
an idea bred to idiocy by the clear
      sight-lines ahead. You come in
          by the same door, you carry
 
what cannot be left for its own
      sweet shimmer of reason, its false blood;
the same tint I hear with the pulse it touches
      and will not melt. Such shading
of the rose to its stock tips the bolt
      from the sky, rising in its effect of what
motto we call peace talks. And yes the
      quiet turn of your page is the day
          tilting so, faded in the light.

 

 

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http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703766704576009540219126236.html?mod=googlenews_wsj#articleTabs%3Dcomments

New from the publisher Godine is the new manifesto of communication. If only we would all expound as if we were classically educated. Besides, I’m not. Maybe an autodidact, but never conceived of the possibleness of the classical rigors.¬†

This review is interesting for the tidbits that it extracts. It is almost a full-length commercial for the book, though isn’t that what most reviews strive for in the end?

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