Archive for the 'In this week's New Yorker' Category

In this week’s New Yorker

June 23, 2010

Three items of special interest:

1) Nicole Kraus’s haunting short story “The Young Painters,” continuing the New Yorker’s series spotlighting young writers, “20 Under 40.”

2) Ariel Levy’s profile of 2012 Republican presidential candidate Mike Huckabee, delivered with Levy’s usual light touch, detailed reporting, compassion, and unerring bigotry-sensor. To wit:

One afternoon in Jerusalem, while Huckabee was eating a chocolate croissant in the lounge of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, I asked him to explain his rationale for opposing gay rights. “I do believe that God created male and female and intended for marriage to be the relationship of the two opposite sexes,” he said. “Male and female are biologically compatible to have a relationship. We can get into the ick factor, but the fact is two men in a relationship, two women in a relationship, biologically, that doesn’t work the same.”

3) Anthony Lane’s laugh-out-loud hilarious account of the Eurovision Song Contest, which you have to be a subscriber to read online. But it’s worth chasing down and reading in full, perhaps aloud, to catch the gems that Lane tosses out on the run.

Whether you’re presenting, performing, attending, or watching at home, alcohol is essential for getting through the Eurovision Song Contest, and the Norwegian pils served at the concession stands, as weak as fizzy rain, was simply not up to the job. How else could one face an opening band, from Moldova, who rhymed “We have no progressive future!” with “I know your lying nature!”, and who had taken pains to insure that their violinist’s illuminated bow matched the bright-blue straps of the lead singer’s garter belt? A deranged Estonian pianist smacked his keyboard with one raised fist, like a butcher flattening an escalope of veal. A pair of ice-white blondes, one with a squeezebox, decided to revive the moribund tradition of oompah-pah — or presumably, since they were Finnish, oom-päa-päa. A Belgian boy came on to croon “Me and My Guitar,” otherwise known as “Him and His Crippling Delusion.”



In this week’s New Yorker

June 9, 2010

The New Yorker‘s Summer Fiction double issue includes half the editors’ picks of 20 writers under 40. For me the highlight is a new story by Gary Shteyngart, the Russian-born author of the hilarious novel Absurdistan. The story, “Lenny Hearts Eunice,” is another crazy love story set in a not-too-distant future high-tech dystopian Manhattan and features a typically Shteyngartian protagonist — nerdy, horny, physically self-deprecating — who works for a company selling Eternal Life. The futuristic elements are deeply embedded into a hilarious mash-up of diary/blog/e-mail entries with one beautiful striking image after another:

Passing a playground, Lenny notes: “I relished hearing language actually being spoken by children. Overblown verbs, explosive nouns, beautifully bungled prepositions. Language, not data. How long would it be before these kids retreated into the dense clickety-clack…world of their absorbed mothers and missing fathers?”

He describes NYU as “that indispensable local educator of bright enough women and men.”

And an ominous military vehicle is described thusly: “An armored personnel carrier bearing the insignia of the New York Army National Guard was parked astride a man-size pothole at the intersection of Essex and Delancey, a roof-mounted .50-calibre Browning machine gun rotating a hundred and eighty degrees, back and forth, like a retarded metronome….”

In this week’s New Yorker…

May 19, 2010

…I learned about two media celebrities I’ve never encountered and would be happy to remain unacquainted with: Fox News blowhard Andrew Breitbart (cannily eviscerated by the ever-sharp Rebecca Mead) and Chelsea Handler, who somehow has managed to sell out two shows at Radio City Music Hall.

And then there’s this Drew Dernavich cartoon:
And this from Roz Chast:

In this week’s New Yorker

May 9, 2010

The best cartoon:

In this week’s New Yorker

April 30, 2010


Those who need a reason to renew — or begin — their admiration of Janet Malcolm (above) as a writer are directed to her report in this week’s New Yorker on a murder trial, “Iphigenia in Forest Hills.” The teaser on the newsstand cover captures the heart of the story: “The shooting of Daniel Malakov in front of his four-year-old daughter stunned a tight-knit Queens community. But when his wife stood trial for ordering the hit, the courtroom didn’t hear about the shocking injustice behind the crime.” But you have to read the entire piece to appreciate the multitudinous layers of Malcolm’s mastery: her scrupulous attention to the use of words, her simple yet deep explication of the occupations journalist and trial lawyer, her unerring journalistic objectivity and yet her unapologetic subjectivity (she tells you she doesn’t think the wife was guilty of hiring an assassin, and why), her fastidious laying out of all the facts in the case in such a way that, paradoxically, preserve several crucial mysteries.

Also in the magazine: a very thoughtful review by Hilton Als of the revival of La Cage aux Folles and Sondheim on Sondheim.