Culture

Back in New York, tanned and relaxed, despite a few job woes. Kay and I have begun reading the Brothers Karamazov together, which has rekindled my love for Russian literature. I don't really believe in genetic dispositions, but as the descendent of many slavs, there's an extent to which the philosophical manic-depressive acceptance so pervasive in what Russian literature I have read (and its not nearly enough to be making such a generalization) just feels like home (ha!).

We went to see The Last Mistress on Sunday, as an on-the whim decision in a rainstorm, and were pleasantly surprised. Its a very beautifully-shot film based on a 19th century French novel about the tribulations of a reformed libertine. It's paced like a novel, which is a little off-putting, but the acting is superb. Rococo France usually bores me to no end. This held me in rapt attention. It's only playing through the end of the week at the IFC theater, but I'm sure there are other ways to get a glimpse of it.

We also saw Cecil B. DeMille's 1934 Cleopatra at the MoMA. Which was fantastic on so many levels. The extent to which film of that time was still very much theater was in full swing, by which I mean huge, choreographed dances, a sense of scale built around a fourth wall, orchestral grandeur... and Claudette Colbert is simply amazing as a cheeky 1930's era Egyptian queen. Add to that amusing anachronisms, like how whoever someone is supposed to represent, they're white and speaking in the Hollywood Accent, and the film represents a time when movies weren't supposed to be virtual reality, but theatrical storytelling. Also represents a time when there was a monolithic white America, but lets not call the kettle black, here.

So, add to that the fact that I'm listening to several live bootlegs of the Archers of Loaf right now, and I feel like a paragon of culture.