1000 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
The term “prestige television” used to mean big ambition and slow rhythm, as if each episode was a movie. The Sopranos, Mad Men, Breaking Bad—these were dramas about institutions, morality, and power, all told through the highest cinematic craft. Having cable access to such art felt too good to be true.
On a freezing January snow day, former Daily Pennsylvanian staffer Max Annunziata (C ’26) spent his day skiing in Clark Park with his friends, ending the day with a snowball fight. For Max, moments like these have become a defining part of his time at Penn. Max is the first to admit that Penn is intense, describing his first few months here as a constant “what the fuck” feeling. By quite literally taking a breath of fresh air, he found a strong sense of community in the Penn Outdoors Club and on Penn Ski—where he has hiked out to Wissahickon with his friends, traversed Blue Mountain, and biked around Philly just to clear his head. But stepping away from Penn is only part of his experience. When Max arrived on campus, he was also eager to have a stake in campus policies. Since campaigning for student government and putting his face on a poster was not exactly his thing, Max ended up joining the Student Committee on Undergraduate Education (SCUE) his freshman fall. Ever since, he has worked behind the scenes to advocate for the Penn student body, such as helping improve equity for club application processes and increasing transparency in participation grading.
Freida McFadden’s The Housemaid is not a particularly intellectual read. It’s shocking, full of plot twists which keep the reader turning pages. I read this book in two sittings on a long car trip and can affirm that I was never bored. The characters at first appear a bit stereotypical: the broke city girl, the uptight housewife, the sheltered kid, the sad husband. But the novel soon reveals that these initial impressions are misleading, reframing the characters in far more unsettling ways. As in any beach–read thriller, the story is more plot–driven than character–driven, but part of the plot comes from the realization of their true personalities. In that way, the suspense comes as much from character as from action.
“Oh to be a high schooler from 2015–2019.”
“How are you doing, Laura? Welcome, welcome in.”
It’s strange to say a project made by 30–somethings is reminiscent of their “late style.” But for I Used to Go to This Bar, the latest release from California pop–punk outfit Joyce Manor, that descriptor feels more than apt. In 2011, Joyce Manor came screaming on to the national scene with its self–titled debut album, a project whose short, aggressive rock anthems bubbled with teenage angst and paranoia. In 2014, the band’s third album, Never Hungover Again, channeled that same adolescent malaise to even greater acclaim.
To avoid wasting your time, I’ll answer that question upfront: Wonder Man was made for me.
I used to think that love would announce itself—that I would meet someone and know immediately whether it was love. That it would be so clear and unmistakable I couldn’t ignore it. In the poems I wrote, the books I read, and the films I watched, I looked for love, hoping that I might one day recognize myself in the people I was writing, reading, and watching.
Bring me back to the old days of cowering over your friend’s phone at a sleepover, curating the perfect text to send their crush. Sure, the best flirty texts might have been a group effort, but at least they were human ones. Now, we’ve outsourced our romantic incompetence to artificial intelligence–powered chatbots, and honestly, it shows.
Sure, presidents, vice presidents, mayors, and other political figures may technically be the ones in office, but their spouses wield arguably just as much power and influence. For centuries, despite not being elected officials themselves, the spouses of high–ranking politicians have been thrust into the spotlight of the American public eye. There is no job description that specifies what exactly it means to be “first lady,” but women have been constantly reshaping the role with each new administration through new initiatives, programs, events, and above all, fashion.
As a member of Street, Hollywood’s most feared and respected publication, I recently had the honor of previewing the latest Asian American Blockbuster(™): it’s the powerful story of a young Asian American who fights their controlling family and ultimately overcomes their conservative thinking, winning the freedom to choose their own path as a result.
As Music editor, it’s my favorite time of year again: Grammy Season. All of music royalty gathered under one roof to celebrate, react, and judge their peers—it’s my Olympics. 2025 was no snoozefest for the music industry, with the neons of CHROMAKOPIA, the TikTok clipability of DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS, and the Olivia Dean craze. While we all hope for a Cinderella story and are often faced with resounding predictability, the annual anticipatory forecasting is always a delight. Street is here to share their thoughts on who the winners, losers, and disappointments of the night will be.
The anxiously awaited second part to the Wicked duology, Wicked: For Good, released this past November and, to quote Glinda, “I couldn’t be happier.” Wicked (2024) was highly regarded by audiences and critics alike; during the 2025 Oscars, the film received ten nominations, winning in Costume Design and Production Design (in addition to other Critics’ Choice Awards, Golden Globes, and more). However, there’s been a significant difference in reception this time around—especially when it comes to critics. The number of 2026 Oscar nominations? None.
As a self–proclaimed folk music fanatic, I’m thrilled to secure press passes to Gregory Alan Isakov’s concert last Thursday. I make the trek (thank you The Daily Pennsylvanian Uber budget) to The Met Philadelphia in sub–freezing temperatures, dressed in a classically impractical outfit. I walk in with an eager skip in my step and am immediately confronted with an unexpected surprise.
The old Nike business model of taking a shoe that was popular 20 or 30 years ago and rehashing it is getting pretty lazy. For a company so set on innovation, how ironic is it that they can’t innovate something for the sneaker community? We’re getting fed the same pairs that already had their heyday decades ago. Yet, looking back on the year, I honestly couldn’t love it more.
When you think of a “meet–cute,” what pops into your mind? Maybe it’s Hugh Grant spilling his orange juice on Julia Roberts on a London street in Notting Hill. Maybe it’s Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel bonding over The Smiths in the office elevator in (500) Days of Summer. Maybe it’s even Cinderella, in Cinderella, entering the ball and locking eyes with her prince. (That one seems less likely, but, hey).
Quentin Tarantino released a new chapter of Kill Bill this month—not as a film, not as a short, but as a Fortnite cinematic. Yes, that Fortnite. The platform built on battle passes, emotes, and endless crossovers is now hosting original work by the filmmaker who once called digital projection “the death of cinema.” It’s hard to imagine a more surreal collision: one of the last self–defined auteurs dropping lore into a game best known for lightsabers, Thanos gloves, and Ariana Grande concerts.
Young people are facing a loneliness epidemic. At this point, it’s a modern–day truism that feels both unshakeable and all–encompassing. Research shows that Gen Z is the loneliest generation thus far, facing rates of isolation that are higher than both those of millennials and Gen X. We don’t get out of the house enough; we don’t meet enough people; we spend too much time on that damn phone; and, as we have all for some reason been told ad nauseum, we don’t have enough sex!
The S train on 42nd Street runs on the shortest subway line, connecting only two stops. On any given day, 100,000 people take the S, and on Dec. 26, 2018, I was one of them.
Philly calls itself the City of Brotherly Love—an earnest piece of civic mythology, and also reverently branded. But in our concrete jungle, much of the love here doesn’t feel so brotherly at all. If anything, it’s exposed. It’s nuanced and handwritten. Love in Philly is unguarded, at times stripped of subtlety, and often spray painted. It’s zip–tied to fences and visible from inside the steel walls of a rumbling train. Sometimes, it’s waiting for someone to stand in front of it to take a picture. But largely, it is that picture—stable and sustained long enough to be admired.
Solutions by The State News