Innholdsfortegnelse for September 2, 2013 i The New Yorker

Steve Coll (Comment, p. 21) is the dean of the Graduate School of Journalism at Columbia. David Owen (The Talk of the Town, p. 25; “Bears Do It,” p. 26), a staff writer, is the author of “The Conundrum” and “Green Metropolis.” Samanth Subramanian (“The Agitator,” p. 32) is the India correspondent for The National and the author of “Following Fish: Travels Around the Indian Coast.” He is working on a book about the Sri Lankan civil war. Nathaniel Stein (Shouts & Murmurs, p. 37) is a writer living in Los Angeles. Elizabeth Danson (Poem, p. 44), whose prose and poetry have appeared in various journals, is the author of “The Luxury of Obstacles,” a collection of poems. Frank Viva (Cover) is an illustrator and a graphic designer, and…

You know Lois Smith. You’ve seen her a million times. Onstage, in the movies, on TV. You might be thinking of Mary Louise Wilson or Elizabeth Wilson—two equally great actresses, not related, around the same age. No, Smith is the girl you’ll remember from “East of Eden”: the kid in the whorehouse who has so many complicated reactions to James Dean’s inquiries you can hardly keep up. Or you might have seen her on Broadway in 1957 as the wildly spirited Carol in Tennessee Williams’s “Orpheus Descending.” With her plump lower lip and tremulous voice—in films, her laughing sounds a little like crying—the now eightytwo-year-old Smith’s face has always been a study in mercurial possibilities. By widening her eyes and then letting out a shout where no one, not even…

446 Columbus Ave. (212-595-2624)—If anyone has ever asked what a Negroni made without gin tastes like, they can drink the answer at Corvo Bianco, a new modern Italian bar and restaurant on the Upper West Side. Apart from the “classic”— gin, sweet vermouth, Campari—there is a “smoky” one, made with rum, and the vodka-based “angelo.” It’s hard to reinvent perfection, though: while both variations end with that astringent, pleasantly medicinal taste of vermouth, what’s absent is that sweet, flowery, English-garden quality. These cocktails feel like shortcuts, rather than rambles. But maybe that’s beside the point, since the bar area—distinct from the cavernous restaurant in the back—is filled with people who just seem anxious for a drink. Judging by the preponderance of women in halter tops and nervy solo guys checking…

In October, DreamWorks plans to release “The Fifth Estate,” an international thriller about WikiLeaks. The director is Bill Condon, who made two of the “Twilight” vampire movies; Benedict Cumberbatch plays Julian Assange. Sure to follow are studio imaginings of the Edward Snowden affair, which looked script-ready the minute the N.S.A. contractor surfaced in Hong Kong with a hard drive full of secrets and a baby face lined with stubble. Assange and Snowden style themselves as philosopher-rebels in the age of Big Data, and, over all, their disclosures of state secrets have served the public interest. But the glamorization of their radicalism is a distraction. In American courthouses this summer, a vitally important, yet much more subdued, struggle over the First Amendment’s scope is taking place between the Obama Administration and…

Grayson Perry, the British artist and Turner Prize winner, was recently standing on a stepladder in the middle of a rest-stop parking lot on the M1, Britain’s main north-south highway. It was a bright Sunday lunchtime. Perry, who is fifty-three, has perhaps eclipsed Eddie Izzard, the actor and comedian, as Britain’s favorite transvestite—in May, he attended the BAFTA awards wearing a hooded opera cape and a dress decorated with an obscene image picked out in pearls—but here he was wearing a dark cotton jacket over a plain white shirt, and his blond pageboy cut was unstyled. He held a camera, a walkie-talkie, a megaphone, and a small print of “The Derby Day” (1856-58), by William Powell Frith. “O.K.,” he said, amused, enjoying his walkie-talkie. “We’re going to start with the…

One evening last February, Arvind Kejriwal, India’s most vocal crusader against corruption, fidgeted in an S.U.V. passenger seat, bound for a rally in west Delhi. He wore a white Gandhi cap printed in Hindi with the words “I am the common man,” a reference to his boisterous new political party, Aam Aadmi (“Common Man”). Earlier in the day, he had sent tweets scorning a court summons that he and his party executives had received for “unlawful assembly” at a demonstration outside the Prime Minister’s home. Now his thumbs skittered over his BlackBerry as he scanned dozens of outraged responses. The phone rang incessantly, but he rarely picked up. He believed that the government was using its intelligence agencies to monitor him and his party’s top officials. “Our phones are tapped.…

In the after-monsoon calm, birdsong again. They loll on the veranda, she sniffing at the crisp air, he puffing a cheroot. A hummingbird visits the vine where the first bougainvillea blossoms are ruffling their collars and cuffs. She watches the tiny jewelled flame flick shimmering from sip to sip; its quick purposeful flight mesmerizes her, catches an inward chord, an inflammable wick. A vision startles her. He sees her smile and wonders why. Her loins are burning as she gives rein to the yearning aroused by the bird’s zeal, its rapt energy, its never turning from the passionate probing of each flower. She envisions herself tied with silken bonds to the veranda hammock, by feet and hands, naked and rouged where the nether lips flare, anointed with honey there, which…

Women walk in lenient skirts, their toenails like rows of rubies. On the sidewalk outside the market, a spry deliveryman stacks boxes of blueberries, carrots complete with green manes, and bananas like little tied-together canoes. A dog’s nose and tongue are overcome by all the smells returned from furlough. The avenue’s ash trees speak in the tender tones of our mothers waking us from troublesome sleep. The river three blocks west sends breezes, and a bus driver almost grins while guiding the wide wheel.…

When we read a novel whose young, bookish protagonist is seen, within its pages, working on a novel, a familiar literary conceit is encouraged: the novel he is depicted trying to write becomes, ideally and figuratively, the one we are reading. This principle operates even when the young, bookish protagonist, like Jacob Putnam, in Caleb Crain’s first novel, “Necessary Errors” (Penguin), hardly manages to write anything at all, and has only vague, if fierce, literary ambitions. Jacob, a recent Harvard graduate, has arrived in Prague, in 1990, to teach English—but he has really come to write his novel. In the bildungsroman, more often than not, it is understood that the Bildung is building to the Roman. But, as I was reading “Necessary Errors,” this slightly academic circularity began to resonate…

FOLLOWING THE MONEY Sarah Stillman, in her piece on civil forfeiture, exposes the long-standing abuse of those laws; there is, however, another monstrous abuse that she does not mention (“Taken,” August 12th & 19th). This involves the seizure of assets from people who are unaware that it is a federal crime to “structure” bank deposits so that a sum larger than ten thousand dollars is deposited in a series of smaller transactions. The law’s rationale is sound: it gives the government a way to track large amounts of cash moved by potential terrorists or drug dealers. But its reach is much broader, ensnaring law-abiding citizens who do not want to carry large sums of money with them, or who want to keep the amount of their cash savings private.…

“ProBio”—a group of techno-conceptual, body-conscious works by eleven young artists, now in its final week at MOMA PS1—isn’t the best show of the summer, but I can’t get it out of my head. It sneaks up on a person, like the iRobot vacuums that scuttle around underfoot in “iFeel,” an installation by DIS, a New York collective with a knack for the glibly unnerving. Take their one-minute film satirizing the art market’s insatiable thirst for new blood: three women rub their very pregnant bellies with glitter-manicured hands, as a voice-over intones, “The world is waiting for someone—the next artist, the next genius . . . You will emerge.” It’s Lucas Cranach’s “Three Graces” recast as an infomercial. “ProBio” was organized by the sculptor Josh Kline, who includes his own work…

Like the philosopher who was so busy gazing at the stars that he tripped into a well, the oftridiculed director Ed Wood stared so fixedly at his own grandiose designs that he stumbled upon the stuff of filmmaking. The apotheosis of his absurdity, “Plan 9 from Outer Space,” from 1956 (screening Aug. 28 at Film Forum), links a trio of zombies—played by Bela Lugosi, Vampira, and the muscle-bound hulk Tor Johnson—to an alien invasion intended to prevent nuclear war and other man-made disasters. The flimsy sets, flagrant acting, perfunctory staging, and hectic montage of stock footage convey a frenzied vision of cosmic catastrophe that comes to life only in the awesomely silly special effect of a flying saucer aflame in the night sky. Wood lacked the dramatic sense to unfold…

Last Wednesday, Errol Louis, of NY1 News, announced his low hopes for the first Democratic mayoral debate, which he was set to moderate in a few hours, at Town Hall. “It may look awful to first-time viewers,” he said. “It may look like they’ve walked into the middle of some ongoing fight, or a bad marriage.” Louis was quickly proved right. Christine Quinn accused Bill de Blasio of lying; John Liu accused Bill Thompson of élitism; Erick Salgado, who polls at around two per cent, waxed digressive about socialism and slavery. The audience included campaign aides in gray suits and, in the remaining seats, people who had reserved free tickets online. Politicians lie; they dither; they disappoint; but at least, in most cases, they entertain. The current cast of mayoral…

Robert Richard Randall was a wealthy Manhattan merchant and landowner, whose family’s fortune came mainly from the sea. He died in 1801, and, as a gesture of gratitude for his life’s considerable comforts, left the bulk of his estate to establish a sanctuary for “aged, decrepit and worn-out seamen.” His executors spent two decades defending the will in court, then bought a large farm at the northern end of Staten Island, overlooking the Kill Van Kull. In 1833, they opened Sailors’ Snug Harbor—a name that Randall had specified in his will. At its peak, in 1918, it comprised two dozen substantial buildings and housed more than a thousand former seamen, each of whom was issued two new suits a year, purchased from Brooks Brothers. (An old photograph shows seven retired…

If you’re reading this, it can mean only one thing: that I have died and you are the executor of my will. (It might also mean that you are the person I’ve asked to proofread it, in which case: keep going!) To my executor, I give the following instruction: everything must be burned. My personal papers must be burned without exception. My correspondence: burned. My financial papers: burned. My journals: burned. My notebooks: burned. My restaurant placemats: burned. My junk mail: savor the coupons. Then set aside your petty emotions and burn them. My diaries: take them out of the freezer, thaw them out, then burn them one by one. My toilet paper: do what you can, though I must warn you—it is fireproof. The food in the refrigerator: let’s…

When the news broke—“CLEVE LAND KIDNAPPING VICTIMS FREE”—Rachel Maddow wasn’t sure she had much to add. It was the kind of story that cable news loves: three women had been abducted and held hostage for years, until a garrulous local man named Charles Ramsey helped kick down the door of the house where they were kept. (In the interview that made him a star, Ramsey reported that a neighbor had told him, “You got some big testicles to pull this off, bro.”) Maddow is a cable-news star: the defining voice of MSNBC, which makes her, surely, the most influential liberal pundit in the country. But “The Rachel Maddow Show,” which airs every weeknight at nine, is known for even-tempered political discussion, not for screaming headlines. Maddow plays the cheerful docent,…

Tango, with its tight embrace and insistent drive, may seem to be about only one thing: sex. In a story that may be apocryphal, but I hope not, a French President, upon being introduced to tango, said, “In France, we do it horizontally.” But often there is another powerful current in tango: hostility. Though the man and the woman dance very close, they don’t necessarily look at each other, or, if they do, the gaze may be cold. Roughly speaking, the message is “Now we’ll dance together, then we’ll have sex, then I’ll stab you with my knife.” This noir romanticism, I think, is responsible for much of the popularity of tango, and of many other Latin dance forms as well. I once asked Eduardo Vilaro, the artistic director of…

Musicians love to use the word “cinematic” when describing their music. It usually comes across as vague, or as a reminder that they hired a string section. But Julia Holter is different: her new album, “Loud City Song,” which is her third, earns her explicit claims that it was cinematically inspired. The first song she wrote for the record was an attempt to capture the feeling of a scene in the musical film version of “Gigi,” the 1944 novella by Colette, about a courtesan in training. Holter likened the way in which Gigi was judged by respectable society to certain aspects of contemporary celebrity culture in Holter’s home town, Los Angeles. But the album doesn’t need to represent that movie for the listener to appreciate it. What this detailed, firmly…

THIS WEEK THE THEATRE FERTILE GROUND Atlantic Theatre Company presents a new comedy by the filmmaker Ethan Coen. David Cromer directs “Women or Nothing,” in which two women who want to have a child together enlist the help of an unsuspecting man. Starring Susan Pourfar, Halley Feiffer, Robert Beitzel, and Deborah Rush. (See page 10.) NIGHT LIFE TYING HARDER Over the past few years, Ty Segall, a dedicated twenty-six-year-old guitarist, singer, and songwriter from California, has made a name for himself with fuzzed-out performances on more than a dozen albums, either on his own or with the many bands he works with. For his latest release, “Sleeper,” he took a different approach, relying mostly on acoustic instruments to deliver his emotionally charged songs. Segall comes to the Bowery Ballroom…

Sly and the Family Stone, the subject of a new career-spanning boxed set, “Higher!” (Epic/Legacy), produced one of the most influential and impressive bodies of music in the history of American pop, energetically combining soul, rock, and psychedelia into something unprecedented. Led by the singer, songwriter, keyboardist, and genius Sylvester Stewart, the multiracial, coed group made an immediate and indelible impact that only deepened as Stewart’s songwriting evolved. The band’s three finest albums (“Stand!,” from 1969, “There’s a Riot Goin’ On,” from 1971, and “Fresh,” from 1973) represent a sustained achievement equalled only by the Beatles or Stevie Wonder. This new set includes early standouts like “Trip to Your Heart” (you may know it from its prominent appearance in L.L. Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out”) and “Into My…

THE THEATRE REMEMBER WHEN Sept. 5 Cherry Jones, Zachary Quinto, Brian J. Smith, and Celia Keenan-Bolger star in the American Repertory Theatre production of Tennessee Williams’s 1944 drama, “The Glass Menagerie.” Nico Muhly wrote original music for the play, which is directed by John Tiffany (“Once”), at the Booth. (212-239-6200.) CLASSICAL MUSIC BRITTEN IN EXCELSIS Sept. 5 and Sept. 12 The centennial celebration of the music of Benjamin Britten, already under way, intensifies this fall, and Julian Wachner’s music program at Trinity Wall Street is out in front. Its first two concerts feature three of the composer’s finest song cycles: the complex “Nocturne,” the limpid “Serenade for Tenor, Horn, and Strings,” and the radiant “Les Illuminations.” (trinitywallstreet.org.) MOVIES WORLD SERIES Sept. 6-11 The Film Society of Lincoln Center hosts…

Sometime last month, on a losing streak and looking for answers, Roger Federer decided that what he needed was a new tennis racquet. Having won sixteen Grand Slam tennis tournaments in his twenties, more than anyone in history, Federer in his thirties had come up with just a single title, at last year’s Wimbledon. Stiffer competition presented a problem, but time had also taken its toll—at thirty-two, Federer qualifies as young in practically every profession except the one he chose—and balls that he once slapped back with ease were now skipping out of reach. The new racquet, a Wilson prototype painted all black, was bigger, offering an increased margin of error. In tennis circles, the switch seemed to mark an epochal shift: Roger Federer, the greatest tennis player of all…

A female giant panda unambiguously signals her approaching receptivity to mating. She wanders over a wide territory and scent-marks stones, the ground, and other surfaces with a waxy, hormone-rich secretion from a gland under her tail. She walks through water, to spread her scent farther. Her main vocalization changes from a throaty whinny to a high-pitched chirp, which one zookeeper translated for me as “I’m here! I’m here! My time is coming!” She masturbates, and when she encounters an adult male at the critical moment she lumbers toward him, rear end first, and lifts her tail. Still, things don’t always work out. David Wildt, the head of the Center for Species Survival at the National Zoo, in Washington, D.C., told me, “Some pandas know how to have sex, and some…

He is an athlete, a professional tennis player. He is six feet two inches tall. He weighs a hundred and seventy-six pounds. His legs, gummy and striated, bring to mind a pair of Twizzlers. He is a lover of animals. With his narrow neck and solid pelt of hair, he looks a bit like Pierre, his toy poodle. He has a goofy sense of humor. A few years ago, he became famous for his imitations—Rafael Nadal picking at his wedgie, Roger Federer prancing swaybacked along the baseline. At an exhibition in Bratislava last year, he stuffed his shirt with sweat towels and hitched up an imaginary skirt. That was Serena Williams. He speaks five languages beautifully. He never met a meme he didn’t like. The other night, after a match,…

The conspirators sit smoking thoughtfully, sipping brandy, around the fire in the Colonel’s den. The decision has been made. They have each entered here in uncertain pursuit of some vague enthusiasm and, looking behind them, they have seen that what they passed through was a doorway into history. Soon there will be no turning back. Probably there is already no turning back. They have been chosen by the Colonel. They do not all know one another well, and are not sure they trust one another. They murmur softly, chuckle self-consciously, toast to their luck in the coming adventure, but remain watchful. The Colonel’s daughter enters with coffee and sweet biscuits. This is a welcome distraction. She makes small talk not merely possible but necessary, allowing consciousness of the conspiracy to…

Here is a snapshot, taken from a time before the snap. It comes from the journal of William Allingham, in 1867: Monday, June 10.—Fine, warm. To Brock-enhurst by invitation to the Bowden Smiths, croquet, roses, hot sun. Field-path to station, red campions and kingcups. Down train comes in with Mrs. Cameron, queenly in a carriage by herself surrounded by photographs. We go to Lymington together, she talking all the time. “I want to do a large photograph of Tennyson, and he objects! Says I make bags under his eyes—and Carlyle refuses to give me a sitting, he says it’s a kind of Inferno! The greatest men of the age (with strong emphasis), Sir John Herschel, Henry Taylor, Watts, say I have immortalised them—and these other men object!! What is one…

If you have watched and rewatched “Shaun of the Dead” and “Hot Fuzz,” poring over them as if they were medieval manuscripts, you will know what to expect—or, at least, to hope for—from “The World’s End.” The director, Edgar Wright, is unchanged. So is the lead actor, Simon Pegg, with whom Wright collaborates on the screenplays. The fidelity of the actors who continue to roll up in each film suggests that we are in the presence of a stock company—shades of Preston Sturges. The plot remains a melding of the humdrum and the deranged, nothing being madder than the devotion shown by Pegg and Wright as they spoof a cinematic genre of their choice. In “Shaun of the Dead,” it was zombie flicks; in “Hot Fuzz,” it was action movies,…