Found by the expert scavenger S/FJ. Yes, any information leading to the identify of this arresting posterer should be phoned in to the appropriate hotline. Actually, via Gothamist (see Frere-Jones’ post), we do know the score, but only part of it. More, more.

Anthony Lane is no Milk Dud for the blog Cinematical, which awards Anthony “Don’t Put Your Daughter on the Stage, Mrs. Worthington” Lane the #2 spot (after Ebert) in its list of seven great movie critics. I cannot agree with the entirety of the praise (I think Denby is the better writer), nor with the complete absence of Stuart Klawans or Jonathan Rosenbaum. I do, however, agree that Stephanie Zacharek (whom I know) is superb and underrated and well deserves mentions, awards, and a lifetime supply of red lipstick from France. Here she is on Walk the Line. Speaking of ladies: Hey, guys, what happened to fostering women film critics at The New Yorker, even in the short listings in Goings On? I haven’t seen many of them lately. Zacharek is a jewel in Salon‘s still-considerable crown, but there’s an obvious move to be made here.

With his energetic, appreciative Talk about the opinionated newsbarker and savvy Times analyst Carlos, Ben McGrath rights some of the balance jarred by that odd, embarrassing piece by Alec Wilkinson in last week’s section. That was the arm’s-length account of a young black guy on the subway—”Clearly he belonged to the tribe of extroverts”—who tries to sweet-talk an upstanding woman with Coldplay on her iPod. McGrath manages a nuanced, three-dimensional profile in 870 words. Wilkinson doesn’t do his subject much justice, and the results are dramatically unfunny:

“Barkley, he’s a basketball player. I didn’t think you could be listening to Barkley.” His smile was lavish and sympathetic, indicating that he was glad they had sorted out their misunderstanding. “Barkley didn’t make no recordings, far as I know,” he said. His remarks were addressed mainly to the side of her head. “He likes to talk a lot, but, see, he just plays ball, and don’t even do that no more. Unh-uh.”

The young woman turned halfway toward him and smiled, but the smile was brief and made no commitment.

The young man asked again what she was listening to. Her reply was barely audible. “Old Day?” he said. “I don’t know Old Day. Must be some new kind of thing. Have to find out about Old Day.” He leaned in. “I might like to know about Old Day,” he said.

The young woman smiled again. She changed the position of her hands on her bag.

An idea seemed to occur to him. “How about you tell me about Old Day,” he said. He put one hand under his chin and the other under his elbow, as if he were being judicious and patient in awaiting her reply.

And so on. It’s off-putting. Carlos is a real person with a context who tells his own mysterious story; the cajoling young man as Wilkinson sketches him is a throwback, not to mention a caricature, and all we have is a simplistic reaction to the idea of him, the wild, overfriendly dude from the hood who makes some people (who, I wonder?) uncomfortable and maybe even scared. I’m sure the story is meant to be one of those extraordinary ordinary moments, an Overheard in New York throwaway—I love this crazy town!—but Overheard doesn’t use stuff like this in a trifling way. It uses snippets like this not just to illustrate Life in Our Lovable City of Nuts but to insult everyone involved in a sophomoric, laughably crass headline. It’s a kind of humor, over the top and unabashedly mean, and I don’t go a day without it. If we knew more Carlos-ish details about this guy it might come off as more humane, even affectionately parodic. In any case, at the risk of sounding prissy, this guy’s circumstances aren’t likely to be so hilarious (can extroversion really be the whole story?). Anything can be made funny, of course, but this isn’t. It reminds me that I don’t much like “funny bum” cartoons, which I’ve written about. It’s a tired genre, and this Talk, too, feels uncomfortably out of place.

Categories: NYer, Issue, McGrath, Wilkinson

From Tom “Minor Tweaks” Bartlett’s Responsible Spam on McSweeney’s:

From: Maybelline Kane
Subject: What time is it?

Hey, you, I’m blond, gorgeous, and I just turned 18! I set up a webcam in my bedroom so people could watch me 24/7! However, the more I thought about it, the more the whole thing seemed kind of creepy and demeaning. So I scrapped that idea.

The others are great, too.

I recently got a message—about learning to build simple and clean websites that can bring in the dough—from Myrtle C. Grosbeaks. That’s my new pseudonym. I have one already (I mean besides emdashes), you know.

will be reviewing this guy’s restaurant in a Tables for Two soon. At the moment [it was “It’s as if four frumpy fried clams were transformed by the magic wand of a fairy godmother”], the line just below “emdashes” above is from Nancy Franklin’s Chubo review, to which Pip the blogger adds some abuse of his own.

Categories: Carey, Franklin

It’s a very New Yorker (orbit) Christmas. From the Book Standard:

Scott Rudin to Produce Film Version of Zadie Smith’s ‘On Beauty’

If Scott Rudin adapts one more book to film, the producer may become an official patron of the literary arts on par with Gertrude Stein and Queen Elizabeth I. Production company Film Four has bought Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, with Rudin and Alison Owen slated to produce, according to Variety.

Rudin is also currently working on film adaptations of Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections, Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Zoö Heller’s Notes on a Scandal, Philippa Gregory’s The Other Boleyn Girl and an untitled Daniel Clowes project. Past adaptation projects include Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events (2004), The Hours (2002), Iris (2001), Wonder Boys (2000) and Angela’s Ashes (1999)…. Read on.

I’m looking forward to the Heller movie, in particular—it’ll be fun to see how far they’re allowed to go with it.

“Who today still relishes…the convivial folk wisdom (brilliant wordplay aside) of ‘Pogo‘?”
—Peter Schjeldahl, “Words and Pictures,” 10/17/05 issue

Back to this later, after I’ve caught my breath from the silliness, and perplexing ignorance, of this statement in Schjeldahl’s often astute essay on the evolution of graphic novels.

Later: A post-Schjeldahl Suicide Girls discussion. Not about Pogo, though.

Suzy Menkes in the International Herald Tribune:

An unsung fashion hero has finally been recognized as Michael Roberts, illustrator, editor, style director and maverick takes his book on tour. On Tuesday, Burberry will fete the British-born Roberts, whose trajectory from art school in High Wycombe in 1968 to the swinging London world of Carnaby Street and Kings Road, to fashion editor of The Sunday Times and today’s role at the New Yorker, was as arrow-straight as the graphic lines in his illustrated book.

The Snippy World of New Yorker Fashion Artist Michael Roberts, published by Steid/Edition 7L, tells the story in its title. It is both an intricate assemblage of collages, done, says Roberts “mostly in hotel rooms;” and a wry and sometimes scissor-sharp take on the world of style. You would have to look to Cecil Beaton’s very different decorative sketches to find someone with such a beady eye for what makes style. Even the skyscrapers of New York take on a dizzy geometric glamour, as Roberts fixes each image in the context of its time.
…
At fashion’s epicenter, yet always a lone observer, Roberts has a unique insight into the fashionable world, which he reduces, like Cocteau, to a few sparing lines. New York features large, although he is ambivalent about its attractions.

“I feel most attracted and repelled about New York,” he says. “There is no strong guiding aesthetic. Everything is for the moment.”

Fascinating! More. And here’s the Globe and Mail review, which calls Roberts “a ludicrously multitalented guy.”