Hissing Cauldron of Lust
Like all generally good things, some issues of The New Yorker can be better than others. Any issue which features a movie review by Anthony Lane already is heading in the “better” direction. So it is with the December 5th issue. Lane begins with one of his trademark openings:
The hero of “Shame,” Brandon (Michael Fassbender), lives in what you or I would call New York, but St. Augustine would call a hissing cauldron of lust.
The issue then takes us, via Nicholas Lemann to Brazil and a story on the relatively new President, Dilma Rouseff, anointed successor to the still legendary Lula. In the process one learns a fair amount about the recent history and economic miracle of the powerhouse of South America.
Shifting gears, we’re then led to Zuccotti Park where George Packer gives a human face to the OWS crowd, via a man who came East from Seattle out of desperation and found both community and disillusion. (The man’s photo, seated on a park bench with a wool cap and hood bears — to my eyes– an uncanny resemblance to New York Mayor, Michael Bloomberg … give or take a billion dollars.)
The cream on the morning’s coffee is offered by the well-known epicure, Adam Gopnik, writing on Tolkien and his epigones and their tales’ continuing fascination for teenage readers. Gopnik writes:
Kids go to fantasy not for escape but for organization, and a little elevation; since life is like this already, they imagine that it might still be like this but more magical.
Which, come to think of it, is also why I continue to re-subscribe to The New Yorker … or, for that matter, Commonweal — for some organization, a little elevation, and a trace of the magical.
We subscribe to the New Yorker, but I’m not sure why. I think probably because it’s pretty on the iPad, we got a good price, and my wife finds its politics congenial. I knew it first when it was written for a much wider audience than it now chooses to please, and I miss that. Nothing stays the same, of course, but some things hang on to a solid center much better than Harold Ross and James Thurber’s old rag.
I’ve subscribed to The New Yorker for many decades. Loved it in the old days, and I guess I still love it, although the quality of the fiction has declined, imho. Maybe it’s just that fiction in general seems fatuous in today’s world. Non-fiction as good or better than ever. Cartoons always superlative, although I don’t like the Caption Contests. Shouts & Murmurs good. Etc.
(Commonweal is not and never has been comparable to The New Yorker. The current anti-Israel obsession is terrible. The work of past contributors doesn’t hold up, although for young Catholics unfamiliar with the fads of yesteryear, delving into old issues could be enlightening/amusing/depressing.)
Gerelyn wrote:
“Commonweal is not and never has been comparable to The New Yorker.”…your right… its way better. At least it has the courage to write the truth about Israel’s decent into a betrayal of its own historical circumstance.
Thank you Canada!
I remember when Thurber’s things were new. Boo hoo. I wonder why he isn’t still popular. And Benchley, too. The epitome of silliness, as in “Miss Janet MacMac”.
No longer sophisticated enough, Ann. Have you looked at the New Yorker cartoons lately?