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Walking into Art Enables, a gallery and community arts program for people with disabilities in Washington, D.C., I was instantly greeted by friendly coordinators and the sight of artists perfecting pieces with paint brushes, markers, papers, and canvases.
Picture this: It’s 2021, and you’re seventeen years old. Your family is watching Friday Night Lights together as a COVID–19–era bonding activity, with your parents, who love the show, showing it to you and your little brother for the first time. You adore Jesse Plemmons’ nice–nerdy guy Landry and his relationship with not–bad–just–troubled girl Tyra (Adrianne Palicki). He kills a guy who is attempting to assault her. The season abruptly ends while halfway done, and the next one does nothing to resolve this plotline. You are very, very confused. The writing, prior to this, was very good. This … this is bad.
Lorenzo di Bonaventura (W ‘86) was in crisis.
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.
Every morning, pretty much as soon as I wake up, I want to see what’s happened in the world during the (ideally eight, but likely closer to five) hours since I was last awake. Like so many other members of the screen–addicted Gen Z, I turn to my cell phone. But instead of tapping on the blue bird of Twitter, or the rainbow newsstand of an aggregator like Google News, I’ve found myself turning to the orange and white alien icon of Reddit.
On visits to the Barnes Foundation, I usually have the same expectations in mind. I’ll see Renoir’s pale naked ladies, Degas’s French dancers, and piece after piece by other white Impressionists. I’ll take in every hazy, pastel–colored world, locked in gold frames, chosen by Dr. Barnes himself.
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.
I have read two of Carmen Maria Machado’s works: her memoir In the Dream House and a short story from her forthcoming collection, The Tour. Both times her words almost brought me to tears. It’s not explicitly the content of her works that causes the swell of tears in my eyes, though their storylines are certainly powerful in and of themselves.
Pumpkin spice lattes, flannels, ombre highlights, Shane Dawson, Tana Mongeau, Drake, BuzzFeed Quizzes, and, of course, Coachella—only a few of the phrases that may be found in a time capsule of early–to–mid 2010s pop culture. If Drake was the King of Culture, and Beyoncé or Taylor Swift the Queen, then Coachella was pop culture’s palace, an event that took over social media and was attended by both up–and–coming influencers and YouTubers and traditional A–list celebrities. Coachella always seemed to be as undeniable of a cultural event as the Met Gala, and yet, this year’s Coachella seems like a non–event, suggesting that perhaps the 2010s are truly over.
As tulips poke up along the banks of Boathouse Row, song birds return to telephone lines, and Penn students set up aesthetically pleasing picnics along the Schuylkill River, one thing is certain—it’s spring in West Philadelphia. What’s less obvious is that a burgeoning network of trails criss–crossing the city supports these bucolic celebrations of spring. These trails are critical for urban recreation and the health of wildlife, and they rely on public support to accomplish their goals.
It feels cliche to begin any letter about adulting with the phrase “growing up.” I’m going to do it anyway, but here’s hoping that I can get a pass for calling myself out. At the very least, you’ll have to acknowledge my self–awareness.
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.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
In January, my best friend called me and told me she was pregnant. She was also getting married in less than 48 hours.
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Solutions by The State News