Every Monday, I go to The New Yorker hoping to find Anthony Lane, only to find David Denby. And I weep.
Dude - while Denby's no Lane, I've never found him bad. Unless you have particular articles in mind?Also: you might like Peter Keough of the Boston Phoenix.
lane is a poet of being a dick; him and armond white should have a tv show.
Denby is no Lane? Dude, you are so right. He's like the anti-matter version of Lane. He's so bad I once emphatically stated to a well known critic that The New Yorker had no one worth reading on film. The critic said "What, Lane isn't worth reading?" I said I couldn't take any chances on reading Denby, even briefly and by accident. Lane is terrific, but Denby is fucking horible. You are not weeping alone.
Indeed. A few years ago I made the mistake of reading American Sucker... good god, I'm ashamed that I got through as much of it as I did.
Aside from Denby or Lane, or any particulars, The New Yorker has, over the past 20 years, simply fallen apart. Little more than a tedious Democratic mouthpiece.Hard to believe that, for many years, it had specifically valuable and simply wonderful non-fiction content.How boring it is now..
Lane is an acerbic analyst in the classic tradition, say Hunter Thompson, Mencken, Bierce, Gibbon. Oh, and Hitchens (Peter).
Wanna read a great short story? Annie Proulx, Fiction, “Tits-up in a Ditch,” The New Yorker, June 9, 2008Non-Fiction: Dangerous Minds, Malcolm GladwellNovember 12, 2007
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