‘Cover–Up’ Keeps Its Head Buried
Does photorealism make for a good documentary?
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Does photorealism make for a good documentary?
Come the final Thursday of November, my dining room table bears a feast of contrasts. We have your typical Thanksgiving staples: mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and, of course, the turkey. But seated between the stuffing and brussel sprouts is my mother’s Moro de Habichuelas, Arroz Blanco, and fried plantains. Their comforting aroma is a quiet rebellion amidst the most conventional of American holidays. But a little foreign perspective has made the celebration an open door. In my mother’s eyes, Thanksgiving is adoptive, a happy assemblage of American custom and her steadfast Dominican roots, emblematic of the open disposition that has carried her through her immigration to her life here, in this little corner of the country.
I never planned on becoming a photographer for Street. If I had it my way, I would’ve stuck with sports photography and called it a day. But for some reason, HBIC Norah Rami—a complete stranger at the time—went to war for me, insisting that I become Street’s multimedia editor. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t expect it, and honestly, I didn’t even know what Street was.
On Sept. 27th, 2025, thousands of people visited, played, slept, kissed, smoked, danced, slept, hugged, laughed, and talked in Rittenhouse Square. Mothers with children, ten guys sharing a blunt, restaurant workers taking a smoke break, couples leaving restaurants to snag a kiss under the square’s lights, all sharing the same public space.
When Surina Ramoutar (C ’26) first arrived at Penn, joining a sorority wasn’t at the front of her mind. Now as a senior, Surina is getting ready to conclude her term leading more than 136 girls as president of Alpha Phi, one of seven sorority chapters on campus at Penn.
When will Jordan Peele run out of those distinct one–to–two–word film titles? Nobody knows, but one thing’s for sure: his previous listings (Nope, Get Out, and Us) are hard to forget, and their successes indicate that he isn’t slowing down anytime soon. These films are all widely considered to be era–defining works in the history of Black filmmaking, so there's really no reason to expect a bad film from Peele at present. Hopes were high and held strong when the latest installment in his repertoire, Him, was announced. Except—it wasn’t his film. And the reception of it made clear that people realized that all too late.
In front of New York’s Bethpage Black Golf Course is an ominous sign that reads: “The Black Course is an extremely difficult course which we only recommend for highly skilled golfers.” What’s already a daunting course, even for the best professional golfers in the world, becomes much harder when the stakes are high—and what stakes could be as high as competing not just for yourself, but also for the pride of an entire continent or country? The Ryder Cup already pushes players to the very limits of their abilities. But this year, another element exacerbated their stress: heckling fans.
As “team bonding,” my club gymnastics coach used to force our whole team to participate in Fright Nights—a weekly ritual where we would gather after practice to watch a horror movie and then attempt to leave the gym without being scared to death by each other’s pranks. My teammates and I spent those nights gripping each other’s arms tightly and screaming at any sudden movement. I used to dread them at first, but after a couple of years, I realized they'd become something I looked forward to. I don’t think I could say that I loved watching those movies … but I did love the adrenaline–induced stupor that they left me in.
When Stranger Things first arrived on Netflix in 2016, it felt immediate—fresh, small–town, 1980s horror with kids on bikes, Eggo waffles, and monsters in the dark. The episodes came fast, and the show became a pop–culture phenomenon almost overnight. But for a series that had such a remarkable first impression, its pace has changed drastically since. By the time its fifth and final season arrives in late 2025, nearly a decade will have passed since the premiere. The show will have delivered a mere five seasons in ten years. For many fans and observers, the question isn’t just “What happens next?” but “What took so long?”
Canadian rapper–songwriter–influencer bbno$ seems to have haunted the feeds of scrollers everywhere for nearly six years. Since his 2019 hit single “Lalala” with Y2K, he's built a massive following through both his music and his strong online presence. Although this article is an album review, I will first discuss his digital persona, as the main avenue of promotion for his latest album, bbno$, has been his prolific posting.
Picture a girl lying on the floor of her bedroom. Her toy keyboard wheezes out a few wounded chords, her phone is propped up on a half–empty Diet Coke can, and she’s confessing into the mic like God Herself is listening through the preamp—apparently, so is everyone else. A month or so later, her song is released, and the girl’s late–night lamentations become the anthem of a generation just learning how to feel. She is 17, furious, heartbroken, and about to rewrite pop. Her name is Olivia Rodrigo.
On an especially windy October afternoon, Catherine Chow (E ’26) sits with me on a bench outside Charles Addams Hall, her tote bag overflowing with riso graphs and prints. Surprisingly, there's no rush today—the campus feels briefly suspended, as if the wind itself has pressed pause. It’s somewhat poetic, given how much Chow’s world revolves around finding stillness amid motion. The senior reflects on hosting creative spaces at Penn, leading projects that foster connection over competition, and learning what it means to move through college with intention rather than urgency.
Soft jazz music flows through a quaint, homey tool shed on 47th Street. A faint woody scent clings to the air, and warm lights illuminative reflective metal. A bicycle hangs precariously from the ceiling and a colorful array of plastic, wood, paper, and more line the walls. It may seem modest at first glance, but slipped between each saw and screwdriver are quiet yet moving snapshots of community.
The Holy Grail has been found, and it’s on Spotify.
Superheroes used to save the world. Now they’re just trying to survive it. That’s the central theme of the two biggest comic book hits of the last year, Marvel’s Ultimate line and DC’s Absolute universe. These runs exploded in popularity, offering storylines that were easy to jump into and required no prior knowledge of complicated canons and decades of sprawling superhero history. At face value, to any executive, the key to modern–day comic book success seems to be accessibility. But what really makes these books land so well is the way they capture our real–world disillusionment with systems built before our lifetime in stories where fan–favorite heroes wrestle with stolen time, corrupt institutions, and violent extremism. Instead of escape, they offer readers catharsis—forcing us to reckon with the fact that the world we live in was built by forces we cannot change, but can try our best to fix.
Marvel’s upcoming slate reads like both a comeback attempt and a confession. After a stretch of uneven projects and shrinking box office returns, the studio’s 2026 lineup looks like an effort to prove it still knows how to build anticipation. But whether these titles function as a genuine reset or a carefully arranged apology will depend on how much of their ambition translates into coherence.
Many say that interest in classical music is fading, especially among the younger generations. But wander through University City in Philadelphia, and you’ll hear a different tune. From the rehearsal rooms of Penn’s Fisher–Bennett Hall to the halls of local churches, a new wave of musicians is keeping classical music alive, prioritizing passion, accessibly, and collaborative creation.
What do Billie Eilish and the Bush administration have in common? An intimate knowledge of shock and awe.
At 3 p.m. on a Saturday, the bar at Marsha’s is completely full. Killing Eve plays on one screen, Auburn University football on another, and the rest of the TVs broadcast the Philadelphia Flyers beating the New York Islanders 4–3. At the center of all the screaming and chatter is a portrait of Marsha P. Johnson beneath a gay American flag, watching over Philly’s newest sports bar like a patron saint.
On April 2, Philadelphia’s Rosenbach Museum and Library received a notice from the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH). It spelled out the cancellation of nearly $331,000 in federal funding for the museum’s lighting upgrade project. “Your grant’s immediate termination is necessary to safeguard the interests of the federal government, including its fiscal priorities,” the letter read. It continued that the change “represents an urgent priority for the administration, and due to exceptional circumstances, adherence to the traditional notification process is not possible.”