The New Yorker MagazinePosted: March 18, 2014
First, take this letter to the editor:
I don’t know why I liked it so much, but somehow it did my heart good to picture right-minded citizen Alison J. Bell in Stowe, Vermont taking the time to share her views in clear, even New Yorker-y style.
Then, how about this, in the profile of Lydia Davis:
Michael Silverblatt, the erudite host of the Los Angeles radio show “Bookworm,” says “Literary people know that at the sentence level and the word level she’s the best there is.”
At the WORD level! Imagine that! Does that mean she’s the best writer there is at picking words?
Anyway: then there’s the piece about Adam Lanza.
How about this, from the profile of Darren Aronofsky:
Nolte arrived at the studio in Santa Monica only fifteen minutes late He came in slowly, a heavy man now, at seventy-three, his blue oxford shirt billowing over his pants like a caftan. Aronofsky introduced himself and explained Nolte’s first scene, when the Watchers discuss what to do with Noah and his family in the pit, and an embittered Samyaza declares, “Leave him there to rot.”
“I know that pain,” Nolte said, “because the Watchers have got no purpose – and I understand that.” After rumbling through some vocal exercises, he exploded into character, becoming a roaring bull elephant. Then he tweaked his delivery to add every nuance that Aronofsky proposed: mor disgust, a heightened formality, a disenchantment with mankind.
Aronofsky raced into the control room and cried, “How fucking talented is that guy? God damn! He’s giving us character and emotion, which is what was missing. I might have to write a movie for him. Oh, it’s a shame – he’s had more work than Mickey, but he hasn’t done enough. It’s so heartbreaking.”
After a rest, Nolte told an involved story about a small role he had in “Run All Night,” a forthcoming film starring Liam Neeson. “Wow,” Aronofsky said, when the story appeared to be over. “So who’s the director?”
“No idea,” Nolte said.
When the story appeared to be over.
(The director is Jaume Collet-Serra, I looked it up).
My one problem with this issue of the New Yorker, and it’s a big one, is this: profiler Tad Friend has been trying hard to get Aronofsky to take him to Coney Island, where he grew up. At last he does:
In the summers, Aronofsky spent much of his time on Coney Island’s Cyclone, the rackety wooden roller coaster built in 1927. He led me to it, then cried “Bawk, bawk” when I declined to go aboard. “Everything about myself as a filmmaker is only understandable by going on the Cyclone,” he said.
THEN GO ON THE CYCLONE YOU PUSSY!!!!
(editor’s note: for the next two months we’ll be away from HelyTimes headquarters. As a result, formatting on HelyTimes may suffer, as it’s a pain in the bun to format on an iPad. Please bear with us.)