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Contributing editor Katherine Dalton writes from Louisville, Kentucky.
Charley Bland, as his father describes him, would have been a prodigal son except he never had the gumption to leave home.
With the publication of the first volume of an expanded edition of her letters in 1980, and now this biography, Mary Shelley's reputation is being reconsidered. This renewed attention is not due to the perennial interest in her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, or to one of those periodic reworkings of her greatest book, Frankenstein.
As 1969 rolled around and the decade was ending, I was six years old and living in a temperate Southern city a thousand miles from New York.
In recent years Actors Theatre of Louisville's artistic director Jon Jory has come under fire for the relative weakness of his new play festival. He should be happy that this year's season was stronger.
The title of Sara Suleri's memoir, "Meatless Days," refers to the Pakistani government's attempt at conservation following its independence from India in 1947.
In 1963, when Tyrone Guthrie produced his first season at the new Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis, the States did not have much in the way of regional theater.
When Bob Woodward published Veil: The Secret Wars of the CIA, in October of 1987, two things made that book news. One was his assertion that William Casey, the late director of the CIA, had admitted to knowing about the transfer of funds in the Iran-contra deal.
"My theory," says Patricia Rozema, "is good art is what you like." Rozema, a down-to-earth, 28-year-old Canadian, is the writer, director, editor, and coproducer of I've Heard the Mermaids Singing.
In 1920 Matewan was a little town on the western edge of Mingo County, West Virginia, right on the Kentucky border. It was a town owned and run by the Stone Mountain Coal Company, and when the miners tried to bring in the union, the county in general and Matewan in particular exploded.
Funny, that a film about "Vietnam as it really was," as Platoon was touted, should fall so wide of any mark of merit, and that Vietnam films with a surreal twist—Apocalypse Now and Kubrick's latest.
Hannah Lehmann is one of six children in a wealthy. New York, Orthodox Jewish family headed by a somewhat caustic, undemonstrative mother and a father whose concern is business.
Perhaps it's living in New York that makes me like Making Mr. Right. Susan Seidelman's latest (she did Desperately Seeking Susan with Madonna, remember) is just one step up from farce: a lighthearted comedy of manners and sexual politics.
Some opinions are communicated like a virus, and the received wisdom on Platoon is a good example of this cultural dissemination on the scale of an epidemic. It's a movie that moviegoers have flocked to, and as for our collected punditry, bowing and scraping before Platoon's fashionable view of Vietnam, they have indulged in a collective rave.
When Perseus went to slay the monster Medusa, advice and presents from Minerva and Mercury were not enough; he had to seek out the Graeae—three crones with but a single prized eye they shared between them, which Perseus snatched in order to force them to help him.
Jim Jarmusch's Down By Law opens with rolling shots of New Orleans townhouses) tenements, the down and out on a crummy side-street. From there we enter into two variations on the theme of domestic disharmony, Jack's and Zack's, and on to a story set in a South that never was, by a film maker who, until the film was written and financed, had never been there.
The Stratford Festival Theatre in Ontario has been training and cultivating great actors for years now—William Hutt, Maggie Smith, Brian Bedford, Marti Maraden, Alan Scarfe, and Martha Henry have all done beautiful work—probably some of their best—there.
So often the trouble with a play-turned-movie is that the screenwriter and director have fooled with the original too much—opened it up too much, added too many new characters and too many new scenes.
"Once upon a time in France," Under the Cherry Moon begins. Indeed: Once upon a time in France, a kid from Minnesota who'd made good came out to try to do better. Nice would be nice, he decided, with all its tacky money, and tons of terrifically incomprehensible French.
In December 1950, at the Nellis Air Force Base outside of Las Vegas, the Atomic Energy Commission set off the first atomic bomb since Nagasaki.
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