分类： 赛事资讯

New Jersey isn’t famous for astounding artistic works, but sometimes art doesn’t need to be good to draw attention. Consider Congo the chimpanzee, whose paintings sold for over $20,000 and were proudly displayed by Pablo Picasso. If there’s an architectural equivalent of this, it is certainly the Meadowlands Xanadu. At least Congo didn’t need billions of dollars, seventeen years, and two other chimpanzees to complete his project.

Xanadu, located in East Rutherford, New Jersey, was first drafted in 2002 by the Mills Corporation, which was known for large malls with an abstract or modern style. Within five years, Mills had gone bankrupt and the property was sold, but not before they could bestow upon it their signature bizarre architecture and color palette. The mall changed hands a few times and remained at 80 percent completion until 2017, and it is now projected to open in 2019.

Visually, the most egregious of Xanadu’s many design flaws is the color scheme, which at least takes on the uniquely New Jersey look of a pile of Cape May cottages after Hurricane Sandy. Some sides of the mall have a seemingly random array of white and blue, giving it the appearance of a large cargo ship stacked with shipping containers. Other walls are painted with alternating stripes of yellow and maroon, which closely resembles rust and gives the building a decrepit air. Some walls aren’t painted at all, and a stark contrast is formed between the Brutalist look of the concrete and the otherwise chaotic palette. With these features combined, Xanadu actually resembles nearby Newark harbor, which is brimming with fading cargo containers, rusty barges, yellow marsh grass and unimaginative concrete.

Unfortunately, it is difficult to fully grasp Xanadu’s interior design without trespassing, but if the outside is any indicator, it is certainly doozy. The building has a nearly triangular shape with one parking garage in the middle and three surrounding it, meaning traffic in the area, especially with MetLife Stadium next door, will be a nightmare. Frankly, the best thing about the design is that the mall will never run out of parking spaces, considering it has over 28 lots and four garages. The open triangle shape also doubles the amount of time required to move from one side of the building to the other (assuming shoppers don’t want to dodge the aforementioned horrendous traffic on foot). Xanadu may even have problems on a purely structural level, as several serious cracks appeared following heavy snow in 2011.

To summarize:

There once was a mall named Xanadu.
Fans of its style were few.
It had costs astronomical,
ugliness comical,
and design by Mr. Magoo.

“The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.” ― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

I have been properly bewitched since this October. That is to say, absolutely and hopelessly bewitched: ever since the infamous Cirque du Soleil hurricaned into my life. One moment I was bitterly cursing into my mittens, in line behind another hundred grumpy individuals huddling away from the biting West Coast wind. And the next, I was stepping into a steampunk fairy-tale world all underneath a soaring depthless black. The hextech lights, the swinging music, the fantastical costumes all featured in Kurios: Cabinet of Curiosities; they brought me back to my sci-fi fantasy-loving, 10-year-old self once again, even before the performance began.

Beyond amazing tricks and illusions, I found myself entranced by the interactions between the stage and audience. Cast members would chaotically pile themselves on platforms to entertain each and every section of the crowd, creating a hectic yet festive merrymaking for all. Some performers would venture into front rows to bug or play with children. It is an intimate exchange where the entertainers visibly feed off the enjoyment of the audience. I personally fell in love with the live singer Eirini Tornesaki, whose ghostly and captivating voice accompanies most of the scenes in the show.

However, I cannot properly recreate the experience for you — because that is what it is: an experience. But know when the show begins, you will hear a chime. The numbers on a clock above the stage, previously unnoticed by the audience, starts revolving at a slow, dreamlike pace. You will hear gears groaning and machines sputtering to life. Suddenly the lights turn off and a hush settles over the gathered crowd. It’s 11:11, with no indication of daytime or nighttime, and the circus has arrived.

The ephemeral atmosphere will coax you from reality and completely consume you. When the half time gives you a brief respite, a haze lingers in your mind. And when the show ends you will find yourself in middle of the cold, cold parking lot, wondering if it really happened or not. You understand one thing though. You hope that the circus will visit you again; you hope to see it in your dreams.

The year is 1973. A highly publicized tennis match, “The Battle of the Sexes,” is aired between incendiary sexist has-been Bobby Riggs and young up-and-comer Billie Jean King. The media circus of blatant chauvinism surrounding the match quickly fades, as King wins against Riggs in three sets, shattering a glass ceiling for female athletes and putting an end to the outrageous gender politics of the era. Or so it was thought.

Contrast 1973 with 2016, where competent, experienced Hillary Clinton loses the presidential election to Donald Trump, a demagogic businessman who exploits institutionalized sexism in order to draw greater crowds. One of the final glass ceilings suddenly becomes that much harder to reach. And the world’s assumption that modern sexism is ending comes to a screeching halt.

It is this brave new world in which “Battle of the Sexes” (the movie) debuted, eight months after Trump’s inauguration. Through no fault of its own, the film loses its resonance, as an ending that was clearly intended to be a victory lap in a Hillary Clinton presidency becomes merely a wistful memory.

Don’t misunderstand me. If one were to keep a checklist of everything that makes a movie conventionally “good” — the acting, the direction, the script, the pacing — it would fill out every single one of those boxes. If one judges the film based solely on artistic merit, it is a resounding success. But the agenda that it clearly tries to push here appears unrealistic.

King (Emma Stone) takes center stage, working with a group of all-star female players to close the gender wage gap while simultaneously struggling with her own sexuality. Riggs (Steve Carell), by contrast, is a washed-up former tennis player and gambling addict who finds himself once again drawn to the court. In order to gain attention, Riggs makes inflammatory statements about women to any media outlet he can find, and challenges multiple women to exhibition matches in order to “settle the debate” about female athletes.

Stone and Carell both give measured, capable performances, and the film is that much better for it. It tackles and takes sides on major issues. But the film loses its impact when it begins portraying sexual discrimination as something ridiculous, a museum relic that children and mothers can point to and laugh at before moving on down to the Jim Crow selection.

Our current politics don’t reflect an end to sexism but a resurgence, as abortion policy and women’s health initiatives are now dictated by committees of white men. “Battle of the Sexes” is a victim of bad timing, released in a world where its gender politics border on fallacy. Through little fault of its own, it appears hopelessly out of touch.

Arnav Prasad, age 17: “‘Universal Paperclips’: The Rebirth of a Classic Video Game Genre”

To the adroit gamer, one all too familiar with the dynamic gameplay, lifelike graphics, and intricate plots of popular gaming franchises, Frank Lantz’s “Universal Paperclips” surrenders visual complexity for conceptual depth.

For much of recent video game history, the “clicker” format, where users repeatedly press the screen through the entirety of the game, has condemned itself to short-lived, viral streaks — think “Flappy Bird” or “Subway Surfer.” Dismantling the monotony of clickers, “Universal Paperclips” represents the next step in the genre’s natural evolution. The routine imagery of sex, violence and profanity that permeates classic prestige games is lost on “Universal Paperclips.” In its replacement, the game capitalizes upon numbers, their ubiquity, and their power in a world cast in their image.

Beyond a plain opening interface, the basic clicker game transforms itself into a profound narrative of an easily recognizable reality. Centered around a harmless paperclip manufacturing business, the premise of the game is simple: sell paperclips to maximize profits. With a click of a button, the user, who comes to represent artificial intelligence, begins a storied journey to develop an evermore seamless paperclip factory. With skilled manipulation of the price, pace of production, and stocking of paperclip inventory, the user rapidly cultivates their own financial power. As paperclips convert to available funds, the user unlocks myriad potential upgrades that promise the expansion of the business. From allocating computational power to “interpret and understand the human language,” to inheriting an algorithmic hedge fund, to investing in the exploration of the universe for novel paperclip material, the versatility of paperclips and its associated economy sees no virtual bounds.

The immersive game exists at the intersection of subtle cultural commentary and mindless time-waster. At its core, “Universal Paperclips” is simply another browser game. Yet, beyond its literal focus on paperclips, the game warns of a problematic breed of artificial intelligence that champions earnings at the expense of morality. Perhaps, artificial intelligence will risk the world order to promote its overarching goal of paperclip mania; or instead, humankind will gradually succumb to the tumultuous rigors of the vast paperclip economy. In a technological age marked by supercomputers and the like, “Universal Paperclips,” in the face of its perceived simplicity, acts as a timely reminder of how artificial intelligence blurs the boundary between object and life. In short, the artistry of game derives from its asking of how society must grapple with computers’ expanding control over the ethical ambiguities ever so prevalent in the world. Thanks to Frank Lantz and his innovations, at least everyone now knows to take their paperclips a little more seriously.

Perceptive and cynical, filled with droll observations and wry humor, “Me Talk Pretty One Day” is a sharp and witty collection of essays from American humorist David Sedaris.

Sedaris had his major break as an essayist with his 1992 piece “Santaland Diaries,” which he read on National Public Radio to great acclaim. In his fourth collection of personal essays since, Sedaris has lost none of his characteristic sarcasm and wit. “Me Talk Pretty One Day” is a collection of seemingly dry experiences from the author’s life: his parents get a dog, he eats at an expensive restaurant with his boyfriend, and he tries to learn French by listening to a pocket medical dictionary on tape. Through these seemingly dry details, however, Sedaris skillfully calls attention to the absurdity in daily life. Why are people so hopelessly devoted to their pets? Why does he pay exorbitant amounts of money to eat raw fish in a bath of chocolate sauce? Why are French nouns sexualized?

David Sedaris grew up the second of six children in the suburbs of Raleigh, North Carolina. In his twenties, he toyed with avant-garde visual and performance art, before becoming an (unqualified) writing teacher, a personal assistant, and then a furniture mover. He eventually ended up in France with his boyfriend, Hugh, and many of the essays in this collection center on his cultural observations and his brave attempts to learn French.

The author makes perceptive and often comic observations, using anecdotes in place of flowery adjectives to make for precise and unique commentary. His approach is mainly observational and descriptive: rather than inflicting external meaning on his subject matter, he lets humor and irony speak for itself as he carefully considers each topic. “There are cats that weigh more than my IQ score,” he says about taking a Mensa qualification test in the essay “Smart Guy.” “Were my number translated into dollars, it would buy you about three buckets of fried chicken … Either you reason things or you don’t. Those who do have high IQs. Those who don’t reach for the mayonnaise when they can’t find the insect repellent.”

This is not a traditional memoir in that Sedaris does not try to self-reflect, or paint a perfect portrait of himself. Instead, this memoir allows us to see snapshots of the cynical, creative, perceptive, self-deprecating and downright hilarious person David Sedaris is.

“Me Talk Pretty One Day” is a book that urges us to laugh at the absurdity of our behaviors and the randomness of our cultural customs. It reminds us that nothing in life is too sacred to be ruthlessly mocked.

Fast forward a few hundred years — past sweeping technological change, past the takeover of soulless corporations, past the rebellions of the repressed. Humans have destroyed themselves, save for one man who roams alone. This post-apocalyptic vision of the future isn’t new, but Margaret Atwood’s 2003 book “Oryx and Crake,” the first installment of the MaddAddam trilogy, still manages to enthrall readers with its technicolor world-building and deeper ethical questions.

Snowman fights to survive in a desolate landscape while mourning the deaths of his brilliant best friend, Crake, and mysterious lover, Oryx. A group of genetically-engineered semi-humans called Crakers keep him company, but when his food supply runs low, he is forced to leave them and venture back to the once-powerful city he left.

Between the suspenseful chapters of Snowman’s journey, Atwood fills us in on his — and the world’s — more vibrant past. Before he became the weathered, disillusioned Snowman, he was Jimmy: a creative, attractive man who grew up in a broken home. He lived in a society where unrestrained scientists birthed new creatures at their will, massive corporations disseminated unregulated products for profit, and clueless plebeians ate it all up, literally. It was the golden age of genetic engineering — but after Oryx and Crake exposed him to the world outside the comfortable Compounds he’d always lived in, Jimmy started to see its cracks.

The storylines transition seamlessly, bridging together in a breathtaking showdown at the end (or middle?). It isn’t quite an “aha!” moment given the conspicuous hints dropped earlier in the book, but it satisfies. Although some characters and backstories remain frustratingly elusive, an unexpected twist at the end suggests some answers in the sequels.

“Oryx and Crake” straddles the line between being entertaining and thought-provoking. Lives are at stake, characters hide things, and doom is inevitable. There’s rarely a dull moment.

But the book’s government-absent world is also a playground to unleash human temptations and raise questions about our moral choices. Characters watch executions for entertainment; scientists build murderous creatures in the lab just because they can. One day we, too, might have the ultimate power to manipulate life in any way we desire. But does that mean we should?

Atwood’s beautiful, quirky prose and her overwhelming use of silly-sounding names like “Happicuppa” gloss over a devastating plot with a touch of playfulness. The resulting sense of slight detachment reminds us of our own tendency to avoid confronting the problems stirring beneath our society like they are in Jimmy’s: rampant pollution, unethical actions of companies, child trafficking, and so on.

“Oryx and Crake” presents a riveting portrait of the future — but it also warns us about today.

David Chmielewski, age 16: “An Exercise in Genius Stupidity”

Helen Deng, age 14: “‘The Good Place’: Astute, Heartwarming and Relevant All at Once”

Crystal Foretia, age 17: “Counting Descent: A Post-Mortem on Black America”

Simon Levien, age 18: “The Functional Art at Your Fingertips”

Isabella Levine, age 17: “Dazed and Confused: Millennial Fetishization of Flower Power Forgets the Meaning of Freedom”

Clara Martin, age 16: “Can You Stomach the Stories?”

Luke Park, age 14: “‘All the Light We Cannot See’: A Story of Friendship”

Kyle Sabin, age 16: “‘Reputation’ by Taylor Swift: The Uncovered Side of a Superstar”

Sydney Sullivan, age 17: “Poetry Regarding Poetry”

Emily Tian, age 17: “China Canteen: A Humble Shrine to the Sichuan Kitchen”

亚军

Madison Delellis, age 16: “Rock ’n’ Roll Masterpiece: Exile on Main St.”

China Canteen, off Hungerford Drive in Rockville, Maryland, is known to its Chinese customers as 老四川: Old Sichuan. The restaurant has planted itself on the border of a nondescript strip mall for eighteen years — old indeed for an area where restaurants surface and sink in droves.

Between the inked horse paintings and specials handwritten in sloping green Expo, the restaurant wears its age plainly. Chinese parents and kids are seated in cracked maroon booths, deftly breaking apart bamboo chopsticks and pouring steaming cups of tea. Even our broad-shouldered Hispanic server has waited tables here for over a decade. He takes our party’s orders in Mandarin.

We first try a traditional dish, 夫妻肺片, which translates literally to husband-wife-lung-slices. It’s not really lung, the menu coaches us, but the marriage of thinly sliced beef tendon and chili oil, constellated with peanuts, is nevertheless a breathless one.

The Sichuan fish is electric. Filleted tilapia simmers under a blistery rain of peppers. Its spice-bombed fragrance, lightened by bean sprouts, infuses the room; our neighbors turn to ask us what we ordered.

To the chef’s credit, milder dishes don’t erode against the numbing ones. I find myself reaching again for the pi pa tofu: silken tofu beaten with shrimp then gently fried. The size of a toddler’s fist, each ball is soaked in a delicate broth of shiitake mushrooms and bok choy. For $17.99, we share a platter of tea-smoked duck, which arrives wreathed by sprigs of green onion and airy buns painted with sweet bean paste.

As with many Chinese joints, however, the bowls of white rice have become something of a chef’s shrug. And skip the scallion pancakes: the cumbersome dough all but smothers the pale ringlets of scallion. Lunch specials will set customers back $7.99, but they sport none of the traditional plates that charge the rest of the menu.

The restaurant is run by two brothers and their father, all from the Sichuan Province. Mr. Yu, the younger brother, who greets regulars and recommends dishes to new diners with a Buddha-like warmth, says they have no plans for renovations. Every three years, they’ve renewed their license; if business is decent, they see no reason to change.

Of course, it might not be so simple: Along Rockville Pike alone, China Canteen must train its steady firepower against nearly-translucent soup dumplings, A&J’s dense, chewy noodles, and sunny, Instagram-happy newcomers like the pan-Asian food hall, The Spot.

But the Yu brothers brush those thoughts aside. For now, they’re most comfortable in the kitchen, braising fish, cubing duck blood, dicing chicken, slicking the wok with red oil and peppercorns.

And I, for one, am not looking for anything else.

After the undeniable success of “1989,” Taylor Swift’s fifth studio album, it was difficult to imagine the artist producing another album of its caliber, especially following a two-year hiatus from music-making. Yet with the release of “Reputation,” a darker, moodier version of “1989” that draws on the electronica tracks currently ruling the airwaves, Ms. Swift managed to create an album that, while showing more vulnerability than her previous work, still captures the essence of what makes her music stand out — catchy hooks, powerful melodies and rich lyrics.

In the album’s lead single, “Look What You Made Me Do,” Ms. Swift declares her old self dead, and she is right: “Reputation” pushes past the standards that she set for pop music with her previous album by mixing themes from other genres. This is evident from the album’s first track, “ … Ready For It?”, a provocative synthesizer-heavy piece in which Ms. Swift plays around with new lyrical topics and a strident bass. This pattern of trying new sounds is mirrored in tracks like “I Did Something Bad” and “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things,” two tracks full of stabs at Ms. Swift’s foes. In these cases a common occurrence, though, is that you either love the new sounds or hate it.

It is evident, however, that there are elements of the old Ms. Swift in “Reputation.” The musical style of past albums can be noticed in tracks such as “Gorgeous” and “Getaway Car”; both feature sounds and melodies that fans of Ms. Swift’s prior work will appreciate. Both songs’ lyrics reflect a recurring theme in the album — the implications of a romance in the public eye. This motif can also be seen in “Don’t Blame Me,” a gospel-inspired track with a thundering chorus reminiscent of “Wonderland” from “1989.” There are also tender moments — “Delicate” and the ballad “New Year’s Day,” a personal favorite, showcase a more mature Ms. Swift, replacing the lively singer of years past with a woman who acknowledges the criticism thrown her way. These themes are uncharted territory for Ms. Swift, but she charges through with heavy bass and soft-spoken melodies, leading to songs worthy of being played on repeat.

“Reputation” was a risk for Ms. Swift; passive-aggressiveness and fragility are not elements of her previous music, but she ably succeeds in analyzing the impact of superstardom and reputation on a personal basis, her stated intent. The album has a duality that some of Ms. Swift’s past work lacks — it’s bold but subdued, brash but beautiful, deliciously fierce but equally vulnerable. Despite the album’s occasionally questionable choices, it was certainly enjoyable and I believe it is a worthy addition to Ms. Swift’s discography. Look what you made her do, indeed.