The film my dad didn’t want me to watch with him.
I dare you to find anything in your life that you love with even half the obsessive, granular devotion Warren Zanes brings to Nebraska.
It’s fun. It’s exhausting. And if that contradiction bothers you, congratulations: you’ve finally understood tech death.
The popularity of Taylor Swift, stratospheric, omnipresent, and somehow still expanding, rests on a principle she no longer seems to understand or care about: what she doesn’t say matters infinitely more than what she does.
Where I tell you whether your parents were right to tell you not to watch it (because they obviously never did).
You don’t just read Pynchon. You enter a hall of mirrors built by a man who refuses to show his face even when it’s "supposed" to be easy.
It doesn’t sound like doom and it doesn’t sound like folk; it sounds like the slow formation of something that shouldn’t exist but somehow does.
The first political thriller where everyone’s both right and wrong (and that’s the point).
Hell House endures because it’s not really about haunting, it’s about how hard it is to let anything go.
A movie that refuses to make you feel smart for liking it and I mean this in the best possible way.
