分类： 赛事资讯

I have a notoriously short attention span. See: the fact that I never watched the cult-popular “Stranger Things” — the first minute bored me. But sitcom “The Good Place” somehow immediately piqued my interest — with its unnaturally cheery lighting and intriguing premise, it practically screams a promise of a good time. To devout Christians and Buddhists and atheists alike, it sums up the afterlife into the Good Place … and the ominous, self-explanatory Bad Place.

It seems simple. After death, humans go to either place based on the balance between good and bad actions during their time on Earth. Eleanor Shellstrop (Kristen Bell) wakes up in the Good Place, but soon realizes that she most certainly does not belong in this land of philanthropic frozen-yogurt enthusiasts. Throughout the characters’ hilarious antics, you may begin to think “The Good Place” will get predictable … spoiler alert: It never does!

With startling self-awareness, the twists of this utopia-turned-dystopia are riddled with wittily delivered jabs at the tendencies of human nature, as seen when Michael (Ted Danson) declares, “Now we’re going to do the most human thing of all: attempt something futile with a ton of unearned confidence and fail spectacularly!” While Eleanor endeavors to improve from her corrupt life of telemarketing drugs to the elderly, viewers become enthralled in this exploration of what it really means to be a good person. Is it holding the door open for others? Is it ignoring the selfish urge to steal all the cocktail shrimps? Is it reading all of Immanuel Kant’s philosophical theories?

Through existential crises and unexpected revelations, viewers are increasingly shown that nothing is black-and-white — this world even features a literal Middle Place. The plot may be unpredictable, but its overarching theme of ethics becomes consistently more important and insightful in this age. As our current nation confirms a man onto the Supreme Court because he sexually assaulted a woman while only being “a boy in college” and school shootings continue due to contentious beliefs around our “right to bear arms,” the ethical battle between the overall good versus personal values rages on.

“The Good Place,” an unexpectedly profound sitcom, does a remarkable job of not only compellingly discussing morality, but also the persistence of human nature; all of this is accomplished while remaining both tasteful and immensely entertaining, leaving viewers wanting more. Take it from Eleanor: Striving to become a better person is what matters most — preferably before death. To quote Eleanor’s ethics teacher, Chidi Anagonye (William Jackson Harper): “I argue that we choose to be good because of our bonds with other people and our innate desire to treat them with dignity. Simply put, we are not in this alone.”

There’s a new major force in hip-hop: mumble rap, a subgenre of rap that is characterized by songs with intense bases and little lyricism, performed by rappers with rowdy personalities. And if mumble rap were a feudal kingdom, Gazzy Garcia, more commonly known as the rapper Lil Pump, would be one of its most important lords. Pump released his first commercial album, the cleverly titled “Lil Pump,” in October of 2017. Now, much like most mumble rap, two things are true about “Lil Pump”: it is exceedingly stupid and yet, at the same time, worth listening to.

Lil Pump once tweeted, “I REALLY DID DROP OUT OF HARVARD TO SAVE THE RAP GAME.” Unfortunately, none of the genius that earned him Harvard acceptance shines through in his lyrics. If you’re the type of person who wants music that gives complex commentary on race, love or other intellectual topics, “Lil Pump” isn’t for you. If you instead happen to love songs with uncreative and repetitive verses about Pump’s wealth and fame, this is the perfect album for you. Perhaps no track exemplifies this more than the infamous “Gucci Gang,” where Pump repeats the phrase “Gucci gang” fifty-three times while bragging about his wealth.

That said, while the nutrition label on a jar of mayonnaise may be more clever than this album, it’s still an enjoyable listen. And therein lies the true genius of Lil Pump and other rappers of his ilk; their lyricism may not be amazing, but their tracks are downright fun. On “Lil Pump,” that shines through in the energy of the beats and delivery of every track. The song “Youngest Flexer” is a perfect example of this. Every line features Pump bragging about his ability to afford expensive brands, but the partnership of Pump’s passionate delivery and an energetic beat featuring laser noises and xylophones will make you incapable of getting the phrase “I’m the Youngest Flexer” out of your head. This trend continues on every track, with the repetition, catchy beats and Pump’s intense delivery combining to make songs that you will inevitably end up guiltily enjoying.

Ultimately, the jury for the Pulitzer for Music probably shouldn’t be putting “Lil Pump” on their shortlist anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean the album is inherently bad; it’s just the musical equivalent of a stupid action movie. Sometimes, it’s okay to set aside complex dramas and watch a brainless but enjoyable movie where the Rock jumps out of a helicopter as his muscles bulge. Similarly, sometimes you need to ignore the more artistic side of the music industry and listen to a teenager who claims he went to Harvard say “Gucci gang” fifty-three times.

加菲猫风格的餐厅。马滕斯医生。纽约的宾夕法尼亚车站。利佐演唱会。

这些只是学生们选择为我们的第五届年度学生评论大赛撰写的艺术和文化作品中的一小部分，我们邀请他们审查他们想要的任何东西，只要它符合《纽约时报》审查的创意作品类别之一。

今年，我们将这个受欢迎的比赛分为两类——一类是高中，一类是初中。超过2，300名年轻人进入了我们的高中类别，该类别对13-19岁的学生开放。他们写了从当地餐馆和艺术展览到喜剧表演和隐藏的建筑瑰宝的一切。

在我们收到的众多优秀参赛作品中，我们的评委选出了 9 名获奖者、8 名亚军和 18 名荣誉奖。您将在下面找到全文发表的九篇获奖文章。滚动到这篇文章的底部，查看所有决赛选手的名字。

关于今年的参赛作品，我们注意到了一件事？学生们似乎已经掌握了锅的艺术。虽然我们经常收到许多免费评论，但在这一批获奖者中，您会发现与批评评论一样多的热情洋溢的评论。而且，正如您将看到的，两者都是一种阅读的乐趣。

无论是正面的还是负面的，我们认为这些学生论文中的任何一篇都会成为伟大的导师文本。如果您决定在课堂上使用其中任何一个，请写信给我们 LNFeedback@nytimes 告诉我们情况如何。

恭喜我们所有的决赛入围者，并感谢所有参与的人！

要查看我们本学年还将举办哪些其他比赛，请访问我们的2019-20竞赛日历。

获奖评论

Lizzo in Concert: A Dynamic Reminder of the Power of Self-Acceptance

Few Democratic politicians in recent memory have spiraled so swiftly and so irrevocably from political stardom to scandal-ridden infamy as former Senator Al Franken. Since eight women leveled allegations of non-consensual kissing or groping against Franken, his abrupt resignation in December 2017 still occasionally haunts Democrats.

Franken’s 2017 memoir, “Al Franken: Giant of the Senate,” is a relic from the former senator’s glory days. I turned to Franken’s memoir to see if his account of events during his Senate career exposes any of the attitudes or actions that compromised him. What I found was simultaneous evidence of Franken’s current caricature, a remorseless, perverted product of Hollywood‘s hypermasculine underbelly, and the virtues that once endeared him to progressives: down-to-earth humor and artless candor.

At the beginning of his narrative, Franken describes S.N.L.-related controversies resurfacing during his campaign for Senate. Yet rather than confronting his comedic blunders with humility, he labors to explain away a rape joke he pitched about journalist Lesley Stahl. Somehow, Franken thrived in a liberal paradigm defined by crusades against rape culture, but he still defends (in print!) his own vulgarities by identifying himself with television’s “good ol’ boys” club. Franken’s sleazy justification for verbal misconduct — “I was a comedian” — suggests his liberal celebrity was all along a contrived myth, disguising latent toxic masculinity.

As clearly as Franken frames himself as a sorry-not-sorry misogynist, Franken’s later account of his time in Congress reminds readers of the heart and humor he brought to the Senate, a chamber notoriously bereft of either. Franken makes long-winded policy battles surrounding Obamacare and Native American rights genuinely entertaining, augmenting technical explanations with stirring anecdotes.

Not all of Franken’s comedy attacks liberal values, either. Many of his jokes, including ribbing against Ted Cruz and calling Antonin Scalia’s dissension against gay marriage “very gay,” inject casual satire into Franken’s tour of his Senate tenure. By dispensing with the cloying, 10,000-foot-high patriotism that typically bloats political memoirs, Franken reveals his main objective: appearing relentlessly authentic, even if that means becoming dangerously risqué.

Given his current reputation, marred by allegations of sexual impropriety, even Franken’s most convincing appeals to the heart — or the funny bone — appear less legitimate. His tainted credibility is by no means redeemed with a few laugh-out-loud one-liners. Nevertheless, Franken’s gut-busting, earnest progressivism explains why some of his Democratic colleagues delivered tearful farewell speeches on the Senate floor for him. The potent jokes contained in Franken’s prose recall the unique role he occupied in the Democratic Party: a charming, recognizable, funny senator, who, unlike every other talented Democrat, wasn’t seeking the 2020 presidential nomination. With the vacuum of genuine hilarity Franken’s left in Congress, reading his memoir two years later is nostalgic and disheartening, if not very exonerating.

A word of warning: The BBC’s “Great British Baking Show” is not mean and dispiriting television. If you enjoy the petty and often cruel conflict most reality programs include, this won’t be your cup of tea.

Set among vast greenery, the “Baking Show’s” prestigious venue makes for a quiet viewing escape. Have a crippling fear of climate change? A math exam on Monday? Your granddaughter hasn’t texted you back? The crisp, white competitor’s tent can tackle those worrisome distractions. Here, where the best amateur bakers in Britain compete, even President Trump seems eons away.

Since 2010, “The Great British Baking Show” has provided episodes filled with eager bakers ready to demonstrate their expertise. The show’s latest season, which includes a variety of creations (fig rolls and tarte tatins to name a few), does not disappoint. Every week, someone goes home, and someone is crowned “star baker.” The first two baking challenges, the “signature” and “technical,” may seem overly crucial to new viewers. But, as a true fan knows, who stays and who goes invariably comes down to the third challenge, the “showstopper.”

The program isn’t, however, only about baking prowess. Humorous at its core, judges Prue Leith and Paul Hollywood assume traditional good cop bad cop personas, and the witty, eccentric hosts Noel Fielding and Sandi Toksvig fool around on set.

After watching the “Baking Show,” Gordon Ramsay’s iconic profanity-filled tantrums won’t seem as indulgent as before, and the drawn-out reveal of “which chef’s dish is on the chopping block” in Food Network’s “Chopped” might feel like cruel and unusual punishment. The “Baking Show” is oriented toward celebration of people and food, rather than degradation of them. Despite Sandi’s jokes about stern Paul “not having a heart” (she compares him to the Tin Man in episode one), he displays more compassion than most reality program personalities. During the finale, when fan-favorite baker Steph’s showstopper falls short of expectations, Paul consoles her. There is something touching when he comforts her and says, “Nevermind Steph, it doesn’t matter.”

And this is precisely the point. It doesn’t matter. The eliminated contestants return at the end of the season to cheer on the finalists, and in the closing credits are pictures of participants baking and visiting each other after filming. The show has a “life goes on” attitude that is absent from our often anxious, everyday discourse. A stark contrast to the harsh media we are so constantly exposed to, “The Great British Baking Show” stands apart in its genre, rooted in good-natured humor and celebration of its contestants and their work.

Dave Chappelle doesn’t care what you think; the opening to Sticks and Stones makes that much clear. Perhaps this confidence is warranted, considering Chappelle simply does the same thing privileged groups have always done, to great success: punch down.

Faced with a new social climate, Chappelle covers everything from the #MeToo movement to transgender people. It’s too bad his new outlook is but a rehashing of close-minded ideas long thought overcome, whether it’s proudly claiming the language of misogynists for himself (“You could … shut the f*ck up!” he tells women fighting for equality — I’m sure no woman has ever heard that one before), or favoring a celebrity’s status over the crimes they’ve committed (“Even if he did do it … so what?”).

Chappelle’s comedy hinges on shock factor, wrapped slyly around the shoulders of his Everyman persona. His most powerful weapon is his mansplaining voice, which manages to convince you that whatever wild claim he just presented is actually common sense, before the moment passes and you remind yourself that his entire argument is built upon fallacy. “What if I was Chinese, but born in this n***** body?” he reasons, and he’s right in the wrong way, taking a potentially fascinating commentary on the societal boundaries of race and gender and instead assigning outdated stereotypes as intrinsic racial qualities.

Chappelle admits his mistakes but refuses to apologize, determined to paint himself as the victim of marginalized groups: “No matter what you do in your artistic expression,” he moans, “you are never, ever allowed to upset … the alphabet people.” He skirts the mention of the L.G.B.T.Q. community’s struggles, instead emphasizing his lazy caricatures of L.G.B.T.Q. people and mocking petty infighting in the community, undermining the gravity of the homophobia and transphobia they face from straight people.

Of all his bits, his comments on active shooter drills are some of the only ones that hit home. We get a brief flash of the classic Chappelle as he points out the absurdity of children with firearms and the rage of school shooters that stems from a place of privilege, even suggesting that the only thing that can overcome the government’s love of guns is their fear of African-Americans.

Chappelle has long been praised for these sorts of refreshing and straightforward takes on racial dynamics, but in an effort to maintain his brand, it seems he’s regressed to finding new, even more offensive ways to present antiquated ideas. Once you’ve seen someone fall a thousand times, it’s just not funny anymore. Ultimately, Chappelle sounds like any alt-right Twitter troll complaining about “P.C. culture,” mocking anyone that would try and dismantle oppressive social structures so he can excuse his own lazy humor.

Arriving today in New York’s Pennsylvania Station — as any commuter, tourist, or local may attest — is a degraded business. Previously, it was an awe-inspiring affair. Consider old Penn Station, a Beaux-Arts masterpiece of imposing grandeur and soaring arches that once straddled an entire block. A technological marvel, it welcomed weary travelers into midtown Manhattan until its merciless 1963 razing. But modern Penn Station — unlike its illustrious, state-of-the-art predecessor — is sorely unequipped to handle its 21st-century demands. In fact, a (brief) visit confirms that Penn Station 2.0 — a subterranean hellhole — lacks absolute coherence.

Notoriously difficult to navigate, Penn Station’s absurd layout only compounds its woes. Though the transit hub is purportedly composed of an upper and lower level, this — one soon discovers — is extremely misleading. In reality, the “two” levels are further divided by numerous split-levels, ramps, and stairs — all impeding efficient human flow. Consequently, Penn Station is perpetually crowded. Oh, and have I mentioned the baffling signs? “Downstairs,” I observe a man holding a map and scratching his head, clearly confused. People here look lost — because they are.

The scarcity of unity extends to the train concourses, which function as individual microcosms — each complete with eccentric fonts. Amtrak’s hall has high ceilings, but its waiting area is cramped as if passengers were the last priority. New Jersey Transit’s concourse, despite a garish color scheme, is the only tolerable space — in rush hour’s absence. And the Long Island Rail Road’s cross-station artery — clogged with a mishmash of stores and eateries — is suffering the architectural equivalent of a heart attack. If train services were amalgamated in old Penn Station’s fashion, this state of disarray would’ve been instantly eliminated.

Penn Station’s obstructive configuration isn’t just frustrating for riders — it actually endangers their lives. Particularly disconcerting is the dearth of escape routes, which constitutes a major security hazard. Antecedent incidents underscore the perilous ramifications; a literal 2017 stampede injured 16 people. Yet Penn Station doesn’t only want to kill you — it sucks the humanity out of you. After 15 minutes wandering its dim tunnels devoid of sunlight, I felt aggravated and stressed. Now, imagine doing this daily — for years. Exasperated commuters shove each other, scrambling for the subway home. Tourists dragging luggage gape at the chaos. Locals flee. Nobody wants to be here. Somewhere above the din, mournful strains of music wail.

For those interested in experiencing Penn Station’s horrors firsthand, admission is free. Entrances are located on 34th Street and 7th/8th Avenues — I utilize the 7th Avenue exit. Back outside, I glance at the squeaky escalators belching masses onto the unforgiving concrete curb. They emerge — and scamper away. As Vincent Scully, the late art critic, famously noted, “One entered the city like a god … One scuttles in now like a rat.” That blustery Friday afternoon, it wasn’t too hard to see Mr. Scully’s point.

Picture it — a gritty, violent horror opera to the tune of lilting violins, wherein men can metamorphosize into anything from the feed for a mushroom farm, to the dining fare for an unknowing high society. This is the grisly world of NBC’s “Hannibal,” tragically canceled in the wake of its third season. Watching it feels as though you’re plunging into a blood soaked gore fest, conducted with perhaps a more tender hand than other such carnage filled media, like “Saw” and “Hostel.” But, beneath the wild, fantastical murders and indulgent displays of opulence hides a complete mastery of subtext, which expertly navigates the various nuances of mental illness, gentle homoeroticism, and at times, comedy.

“Hannibal” follows the tragic tale of intelligent empath Will Graham, who, while working for the F.B.I., unfortunately falls into the favor of extravagant serial killer, Hannibal Lecter. The show is not only made by the phenomenal writing, but also by the extraordinary characterization as portrayed by Hugh Dancy and Mads Mikkelsen. As they further tumble into each other’s clutches, they play psychological games with one another, such as manipulating each other’s lovers, framing each other for murder, and inevitably falling in love, all in a way that appears entirely logical and conducive to their story. The nonsensical becomes reality, the macabre whimsical.

Viewers must thoroughly suspend disbelief to truly revel in the show’s genius — a cannibal named Hannibal making puns about eating people with the Director of Behavioral Psychology at the F.B.I.? Commonplace. A totem pole composed of numerous human remains? A regular Tuesday evening for Hannibal and Co. To quote Mikkelsen, “[Hannibal] finds the beauty of life right on the threshold of death.” The show serves as an exploration of the darkest facets of human nature, examined with a lens of normalcy, and almost reverence. Morbidity serves as an expression of love, or otherwise emotion for the characters, often composed with excruciating care, creating a chillingly addictive experience.

As humorous and witty as, “Hannibal” can be, it predominantly functions as a heart-rending examination of psychology, love, ethics, and humanity at large. Finding basis in Carl Jung’s dream theory and the unconscious desires of man, one’s understanding of themselves and others will be thoroughly enriched by the show, although through somewhat odd means. The concept of empathy is explored in the most painful of ways, and discussions of shattered teacups and time reversal will leave viewers dewy eyed, with a solemn reminder of the fragility of human relationships.

For those with strong stomachs, and who can handle some graphic imagery, “Hannibal” is an extraordinarily worthwhile endeavor to pursue. It is consistently shocking and ever beautiful, forever shifting my aesthetic tastes toward melodramatic opera and gourmet cooking.