At the Movies: Frank Capra–The Really Good Stuff
Frank Capra never made a bad movie (unless some of the lost or unavailable silents are clinkers). His particular brand of sentimental, ordinary-joe appeal and content came to be dubbed Capracorn…
Category: Access
Wednesday’s Child: 365 and Counting
Time sure does pass. Unbelievably, this is my three hundred and sixty-fifth flight of fancy in this space, which means that were the gentle reader to peruse a single archived post per diem, it would fix him up with reading matter for a whole year.
Essay: Sade, the Prophet of Modernity
The greatest of the philosophes, the Marquis de Sade, took the Enlightenment to the ultimate conclusion. God did not exist; religion and morality were invented to repress mankind; therefore, rape, torture, and multi-sexual orgies were all part of a program for liberating the human spirit from the shackles of Christianity.
Putin’s War–A Few Caveats
I have been a Russophile since covering the Balkans in the mid-90’s as a journalist and news photographer. I appreciated the Russian volunteers who fought and died for Bosnian Serb sovereignty and UNPROFOR in Bosnia and East Slavonia.
I have been a Russophile since covering the Balkans in the mid-90’s as a journalist and news photographer. I appreciated the Russian volunteers who fought and died for Bosnian Serb sovereignty and UNPROFOR in Bosnia and East Slavonia.
New Holiday: Aug. 29: First Lightning Day
I’m starting a new holiday: August 29: First Lightning Day. That was when the Soviet Union exploded its first atomic bomb, ending America’s nuclear monopoly.
Wednesday’s Child: Toys “R” Not Us
I fear I may be becoming a kind of Mumsnet figure, jettisoning a past of decadence and dissolution, shelving a present of geopolitical awareness and acumen, and at last becoming more or less competent to answer young mothers’ anxious questions about which talcum powder is best value for money.
Wednesday’s Child: In Fairyland
What are you doing, I would ask my father towards the end of his life, telephoning him in New York from a succession of tramontane regions that were, to him, as inconsequential as they were exotic. Invariably he would give the same answer: “I am lying in bed waiting for world fame.” World fame never did fall to his share, yet this does not mean that his methodology was flawed.
