Game of Thrones returns. After reviewing the last two episodes of gory wars, exploding bodies, and dogs’ ravenous dinner of Ramsay, Season 7 began. It couldn’t get grosser, could it? Oh yes. How does a library become a cesspool. Literally. There are tomes and turds galore. And.
Speaking of bad reads. Leaving Lucy Pear, Solomon’s “mother load” touted by WaPo, is a dud.
Timely. Tragedy. Irony. Shakespeare lives. For good or ill. Past is prologue.
A Tempest brewing?.
Love trumps Trump hate and anti-Trump hate.
Delacorte. Central Park.
The Night Ocean, by Paul La Farge. I’m not sure. It kept me rapt. Author clearly had lots of things to work through. Personally. Maybe. Literarily many unfinished stories found their way into this dense work. Sprawling disjointed tales of several complex people in different times and places. Spaces. Told from a woman’s point of view, Marina the shrink, working out her own issues. The author gave her an authentic voice. It begins as her husband Charlie disappears into Agawam Lake in the Berkshires. H.S. Lovecraftian fandom less clear. More context necessary for those not acquainted with this cult of science-fiction-horror genre. Nonetheless. Worth the meandering page-turning journey. Lots to think about. La Farge’s New Yorker view.
Speaking of mind-bending. Twin Peaks so far is a self-indulgent David Lynchian acid trip with no redeeming plot value. Vomitaceous. Literally.
Romantic evening tableau. Four sailors and a gondolier. Fleet week. Central Park.
Photo: Dr. Gary Levine
The Last Painting of Sara de Vos, by Dominic Smith. A beautifully written history which brings the reader into the art guilds of the Netherlands in the 1600’s. New York’s gritty Brooklyn, isolated rich on the Upper East Side in the later 1950’s. Australia in 2000. The stories are built in layers as is the painting depicted. Sara De Vos’ last oeuvre brings a poignantly perfect masterpiece of an ending to all of the disparate lives affected by her work. Prose is gorgeous. Characters provocative and real. Learned a lot about oil on canvas. One of the best reads this year.
Oscars 2017 ended in a shocking screw-up. Timberlake set an upbeat tone. Jimmy Kimmel hit perfect balance of topical and funny. Gold to Black in a big way. Ali. O.J. Academy Prez. Viola. Legend. Moonlight. Screenplay. Gay, too. Woo hoo.
White on rice. Ah. The irony. Meryl Streep the victim of “fake news”. Charlize Theron wins couture class. Emma Stone in Givenchy. Then. Best Picture. Not crazy. Faye said La La. What? Not. Moonlight. What? Accountant tweeting error. Yup. The new abnormal.
Golden Globes?! A milky way of films. LaLa indeed. Television planets shine brighter. Like. Amazing. If you are black, gay or a depressed stranger thing in westworld by-the-sea of crowny thrones. Lithgow jettisoned. Meryl Streepy. Creepy. Reality will trump galactic fiction anyway. Next year launch anything with Fallon & Timberlake together. Or. Carell and Wiig. Star Wars.
NFL orbit’s elliptical too. Centrifugal forces braked by injuries. Giants out. McAdon’t. Superbowl. Pats v. Cowboys? Collision course.