分类： 赛事资讯

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way, taking a potentially fascinating commentary on the societal boundaries of race and gender and instead assigning outdated stereotypes as intrinsic racial qualities.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.

Garfield — a beloved childhood character; Garfield Eats — an abomination. “Garfield Eats” is a Garfield-themed restaurant obsessed with perfecting their marketing strategy, and clearly nothing else. With a haunting slogan like, “Love me, feed me, don’t leave me,” I often wonder how they managed to find a phrase so efficient at turning away customers before they even walk through the doors.

The awkward, cringe-inducing titles don’t end there, though. “The Garfachino,” one of their main menu items, is watery and bright orange, and looks about as artificial as spray cheese. The flavor was so boring and bland, it almost made me wish it was spray cheese. Their meals are arguably worse, titled “KIDult” meals for the millennials who have yet to accept that they are not quirky teenagers.

These meals include the “Garnivore” pizza and the famous lasagna. The “Garnivore” pizzas are shaped like faceless Garfield heads that would give any child nightmares. The crust seems two inches thick and was so dry, I felt like I was taking a bite of a cracker with a little sauce sparingly thrown on top. The pizza sauce is also neon orange, despite one of Garfield Eats’ many marketing strategies being proudly boasting the restaurant’s “healthy” and “all natural” ingredients.

And of course, the famous lasagna that Garfield is known for; Garfield Eat’s lasagna tastes exactly how you would expect fast food lasagna to taste: disgraceful. It tastes obviously nuked in a novelty box that is clearly the only attraction to the restaurant in the first place. The flimsy cardboard box features one comic strip to keep you entertained throughout your entire meal. You may think one comic strip isn’t enough to last you the whole time, but it only takes ten seconds to realize the food is not worth eating.

It is clear that this restaurant cares more about public image than the quality of their food when you visit their Google review page in which almost every negative comment that makes a valid complaint is flagged for spam.

As for customer service, it’s bad. The average flagged review mentions how most often the “fast food” comes upward of twenty minutes after ordering despite the restaurant being marketed as a “quick mobile restaurant.” It is shocking how long it takes the employees to microwave a box of subpar lasagna, and sometimes, they can’t even do that. A large amount of the poor reviews mention that their lasagna came undercooked and even frozen in some areas.

So, unless you’re a child who desperately wants a novelty box stained with grease and marinara sauce, I would suggest you keep your association with Garfield strictly by comic strip.

There is no single term that can adequately define music sensation Lizzo, but “bop” star, band-geek-turned-pop-icon, classical flutist, self-love trailblazer, and inclusivity advocate are all apt descriptors. At her Washington, D.C., concert, she took the audience to church, and center stage, from a gold pulpit lit up with her name, Lizzo preached a message of joy, self-love, and celebration. Every ounce of her performance shone with positivity. Even before she appeared, the bright podium and large flats made to look like stained glass windows gave the audience a taste of the revelry ahead.

Then, clad in a silver leotard, she appeared at the pulpit and belted out the first song of her set: “Worship,” an anthem of confidence and self-love. Coupling the song with a nod to Aretha Franklin’s “Respect,” Lizzo made it clear from the start that she would tolerate no negativity in her presence.

Her powerhouse pipes were on full display with the title track of her album, “Cuz I Love You.” She held nothing back, and her voice was just as powerful, if not more so than on her studio tracks, and while she belted perfect high notes, she danced. And it wasn’t merely a little toe tapping along to the beat; she danced. Accompanied by her crew, The Big Girls, they rocked the stage, jumping, clapping, and twerking in perfect unison. None of the women onstage that night, including Lizzo herself, were society’s picture of a dancer or performer. They were full-figured, wearing high-cut metallic leotards, with close-cropped hair or swinging dreadlocks, and almost all of them were black. Therein lies the power of Lizzo’s music; it is a place for people of all colors, creeds, and backgrounds to come together and celebrate self-acceptance and positivity.

The crowd, of all ages and races, unequivocally reflected these ideas, and their energy nearly exceeded that of the performers. The cheering was deafening — even louder than the music — yet respectful at the same time. The audience hushed immediately when The Big Girls carried several tiny puppies (with cotton-stuffed ears) onstage to promote a local animal rescue, then screamed in excitement when Lizzo whipped out her flute to play a quick interlude and lead-in to her hit “Juice.”

Although the show was sweet, it was never syrupy. The bombastic hits and slow-rolling ballads were underscored with the knowledge that what was happening onstage was truly unique. It was a celebration of empowerment and self-acceptance by often-marginalized people: the taking back of power stripped away long ago. That night, Lizzo was the preacher at a church of joy and self-love. The central commandment: “If you can love my fat black ass, you can love your goddamn self.”

By Raeanne Ong, age 17, Raffles Institution, Singapore

Startlingly illuminating, and unapologetically honest, Sally Rooney’s debut novel, “Conversations with Friends,” surfaces the nuanced complexities of human relationships, and the way in which they construct and define us. Set in Dublin, the novel follows 21-year-old college student and aspiring writer, Frances, and her beautiful, intelligent best friend and ex-girlfriend, Bobbi, with whom she performs spoken-word poetry. After a chance encounter at one of their performances, they become acquainted with Melissa, a journalist, and her husband, a handsome, semifamous actor named Nick. Suddenly, and inexplicably, the pair of friends find themselves indelibly drawn into the couple’s world as Bobbi befriends the ceaselessly fascinating Melissa, and Frances finds herself unwittingly enthralled by Nick. As the story progresses, so too does the complexity of Frances’s relationships, as they slowly begin to spiral out of her control.

Although arguably not as acclaimed as her 2018 breakout hit “Normal People,” Rooney’s debut novel is certainly not to be overlooked. “Conversations with Friends” combines Rooney’s deadly precision and clarity of prose with characters that are real, relatable and as charming as they are intellectual, creating a breathtaking story that is insightful, miserable and wonderful all at once. As its title might suggest, the novel certainly does revolve largely around conversations among friends, and Rooney skilfully makes use of a multitude of different mediums through which to convey these conversations. Through phone calls, emails, instant messenger and, of course, Rooney’s signature dialogue that is purposefully characterized by a lack of quotation marks, the novel never once fails to deliver on dialogue that is both astutely introspective and jarringly relatable. While Rooney’s particular writing style is admittedly fairly polarizing, on the contrary, I believe that it confers her works a distinctive and idiosyncratic kind of charm that is not only effortless and efficacious, but also very much stylized as uniquely Sally Rooney’s.

Most significantly, “Conversations with Friends” informs us that there are no perfect relationships to be found in life. That loving unconditionally implies not a blindness to the flaws of others, but an acceptance of them; that in order to truly love, one must be able to love in spite of them; and to be truly loved, one cannot be afraid of the vulnerability that accompanies intimacy. Only in submitting oneself to the mortifying ordeal of being known, can one truly experience the rewards of being loved. At the end of the day, what Rooney offers in “Conversations with Friends” is not so much a directive on how we should go about experiencing and conducting our relationships, but rather, an ode to the complexities and absurdities that characterize humans and their connections with one another.

By Olivia Jonokuchi, age 18, Greenwich Academy, Greenwich, Conn.

I thought I’d seen the peak of Asian-American representation in cinema after watching “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before” (2018) and “Crazy Rich Asians” (2018) in the same year. Turns out, I was egregiously mistaken.

As an Asian-American with an inclination for art and philosophy, I’ve never felt a movie shake me to my core so much as Alice Wu’s stunning cinematic achievement “The Half of It” (2020). A romantic comedy drama starring any Asian character is rare, but one that’s also set in an insular, religious hometown starring a queer immigrant high school student? OK, now I’m definitely watching.

Interspersed with quotes from Plato, Camus, Sartre and Oscar Wilde, this deceptively weighty and clever movie will manage to make you laugh, cry and contemplate your identity all at once. Centered on the friendship between Ellie Chu (Leah Lewis), a Chinese-American, queer, essay-writing entrepreneur, and Paul Munsky (Daniel Diemer), a lovable buffoon of a football player who struggles to string his words into coherent sentences, “The Half of It” exudes an undeniably unique charm.

When Paul asks Ellie to ghostwrite a love letter for his crush Aster Flores (Alexxis Lemire), Ellie finds herself in a Cyrano-like situation, falling hard and fast for Aster herself.

Hopeless romantics be warned — this story is about friendship. As Ellie makes abundantly clear from the outset, “This is not a love story. Or not one where anyone gets what they want.” Yet each character ends the movie a better version of themselves — braver, bolder and more open-minded. Perhaps it’s not what they wanted, but rather, what they (and the viewer) actually needed.

Wu’s Asian-American perspective is evident in the carefully devised character of Ellie’s father (Collin Chou), who only wears his flannel pajamas for the majority of the movie and is clearly depressed. Unable to get a promotion in America, Mr. Chu seems to have resigned himself to a life of stagnation. When Paul asks Ellie why she and her father haven’t left their hometown, she notes how “speaking good English trumps having a Ph.D.” Through her depiction of Ellie’s father, Wu acknowledges the struggles of the immigrant whose economic situation mirrors that of many Asian-Americans; we may have job accessibility, but we still lack upward mobility.

With Asian-American, immigrant and L.G.B.T.Q. representation, and no generic happy ending, “The Half of It” stands alone in the teen romantic comedy genre. It’s a story about finding yourself, navigating the trials and tribulations of love in high school, and, above all, forging relationships with the most unlikely of friends. If you haven’t heard the name Alice Wu, you haven’t seen “The Half of It.”