“You can’t be friends with me until you’ve watched Quentin Tarantino’s ‘Kill Bill.’”
Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of The Chronicle's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query. You can also try a Basic search
60 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
“You can’t be friends with me until you’ve watched Quentin Tarantino’s ‘Kill Bill.’”
The common room in which I stood was tightly packed with crowds of wide-eyed freshmen, which made any attempt at mingling without awkwardly elbowing past someone nearly impossible. Great, I thought. Isn’t socializing comfortably with others supposed to be the point of all this? I’d realize soon afterward, on the bus back to East Campus, that my assumption was woefully naïve — rush, as it turns out, predicates itself far more on social performance than comfortable mingling.
Although I make this claim nearly every year, 2017 has been a spectacular year for film. From a wave of new additions to the American “neo-neo realist” canon, which encompasses films focused on class struggles and disenfranchisement, to films that wholly embrace the escapist qualities that cinema has to offer, most of the much-anticipated movies released this year have not disappointed. Though I have yet to see many of 2017’s cinematic darlings — such as “Call Me By Your Name” and “Phantom Thread” — because of their limited releases, here are my picks (in no specific order) for the year’s must-see films:
I’m sitting in the middle of my room, my legs tucked underneath me, and all I want to do is cry. The vibrant and colorful posters that used to adorn my walls now lay flat on the floor next to me, carefully stacked according to size, the tape pulled cautiously off their backsides. I spent the better part of my middle and high school years meticulously acquiring and arranging these posters, curating a spectacular display that I lovingly described as “what it would look like if I threw up my personality all over my walls.”
Summers in Kissimmee, Fla. — a city just south of Orlando and the setting of Sean Baker’s “The Florida Project” — are hot. Anything that comes into contact with the sun melts or glistens or burns under its unrelenting rays. Ice cream, though sweeter in the thick heat, has to be eaten quickly before it drips and splats onto the blistering pavement. The whirring hum of fans fills every indoor space and the dark tint of sweat stains are unavoidable. But for Moonee (played by Brooklynn Prince), the precocious six-year-old around whom “The Florida Project” centers, none of those caveats really matter. Summer means that school’s out and unsupervised adventure awaits, and she’s determined to create as much magic and mischief in her corner of the universe as she can.
As Halloween approaches, Recess editor Will Atkinson and managing editor Nina Wilder have a few recommendations for conjuring up the holiday spirit. Here are their most spooky selections in music and film:
I’m 19 years old, and I’ve never been in a relationship.
When Duke University Union announced last week that rapper Sage the Gemini would headline this year’s Heatwave concert, I was miffed. The annoyance arose partly because I had no idea who he was before a cursory Spotify search revealed that Gemini was the mastermind behind such songs as “Gas Pedal” and “Red Nose.” Mostly, though, I was frustrated that Duke’s long-standing tradition of bringing has-been, one-hit wonders to campus for a raucous concert on West Campus would remain intact.
I don’t remember much from orientation week except that it was devastatingly hot. I was familiar with North Carolina’s stifling humidity—being a Raleigh native, I had to be—but the steamy, uncomfortable climate was a bit too representative of my mood for my liking. Just as the heat seemed bound and determined to smother me, so did my forthcoming freshman year at Duke.
The paper that adorns the examination room’s bench crinkles and bunches as I hoist myself onto its surface. I kick my legs absentmindedly and gaze at the medical posters on the wall, silently willing my heart to stop beating so painfully fast. I emit a nervous, uncomfortable sigh. A nurse has just weighed me. By now, I’ve learned to dart my eyes away from the menacing scale, glancing anywhere but at the digital screen that will assign a very precise number to my self-hatred. Except this time, I catch the nurse’s scribble on my medical chart, and my heart plummets to the ground. Is that really how much I weigh?
The career of actress, screenwriter and director Sofia Coppola has often been mired by accusations of nepotism and privilege, largely due to the dynastic filmmaking family from whence she was born. Most of Coppola’s relatives are also Hollywood multihyphenates—her father is director Francis Ford Coppola, her aunt is actress Talia Shire and her sprawling list of cousins includes actors Jason Schwartzman and Nicolas Cage. (Yes, Nicolas Cage was formerly Nicolas Coppola.) Needless to say, immense pressure has been placed on Sofia Coppola to create a filmography that is discernibly her own. And while her latest film “The Beguiled” is a clear refinement of her style, it’s evident that Coppola hasn’t quite achieved a caliber of filmmaking that could rival her father’s.
My friends roll their eyes in mock disdain whenever I ask them if they’d like to watch a “film” with me. They plead with me—just call them “movies” for once, you pretentious nightmare—but I’m unyielding. Films earned their moniker from the very 35mm film stock that breathed life into moving image, and it’s only proper to recognize the much-fought-for medium with its appropriate name. As the millennium inches forward and we gravitate away from conventional modes of filmmaking, film cinematography’s form is quickly vanishing, threatening to become obsolete with the click of every new digital camera’s shutter. As I see it, films should be just that—film. So, here I sing the praises of 35mm film and plead its case for continued longevity.
If you live in a city that hosts an annual music festival, you’re probably used to the obtrusive changes often wrought by a festival’s sprawl: blocked-off roads, flocks of visitors and unremitting noise. Basically, they stick out like a sore thumb on a city’s landscape, both visually and culturally—music festivals are rarely well-integrated with the communities whose spaces they occupy, often creating a visible disconnect between the guest and its host.
In case you haven’t noticed, music festivals as of late have become more centered around music that radiates from synthesizers and laptops than guitars or drums—for proof, look no further than Bonnaroo, which recently created a stage dedicated solely to dance and EDM music. Similarly, Coachella’s most recent festival run heavily featured electronic artists and DJs among its smaller acts. It’s a move that will probably prove to be both profitable and favorable—electronic music’s popularity has been growing steadily as it permeates mainstream channels, and arguably no other genre has more universal crowd appeal (it’s called dance music for a reason, after all).
When the organizers of Moogfest announced in February that the music, art and technology festival would feature a “Protest Stage” dedicated to resisting the current wave of inequality in both North Carolina and the United States (specifically HB2 and President Trump’s travel ban), many were delighted. Moogfest, which attracts hordes of affluent individuals such as entrepreneurs and engineers, has clout: both international and national music acts grace its stages year after year, featuring the likes of Grimes, M.I.A. and Kraftwerk. The head-nod toward social justice and activism seemed noble, especially given the festival had just moved to Durham a year prior, a city with its own rich history of protests for equality.
Andrew Method, Pratt ’16, has been passionate about film for as long as he can remember. Reared in Park City, Utah—the city where Sundance Film Festival takes place annually—Method was raised in an environment that adored and celebrated film. His surroundings indelibly rubbed off on him. Method began to attend Sundance regularly in high school, and because Park City has become something of a “film town,” his high school even hosted its own film festival that exhibited student talent.
Two weeks ago, more than 10,000 people poured into Durham during a four-day stretch to partake in Full Frame Documentary Film Festival’s 20th annual celebration of documentary filmmaking. The thought alone of that many individuals crammed into such a small area of the city was probably overwhelming to most Durham-dwellers—how would their daily commute be affected? Would their favorite lunch spot be packed beyond capacity? But the hordes of people flocking into the downtown area every year isn’t something that should be met with reproach. In fact, for a film festival with an attendance that barely surpassed a few hundred patrons in its first fledgling years, the sizable turnout was proof of Full Frame’s blossoming presence in the documentary filmmaking community.
Filmed over the span of 10 years, “Quest” is an intimate portrait of the Rainey family as they deal with both the trivialities and tribulations that their life in North Philadelphia has to offer. The emotionally gripping documentary was shown Saturday at Full Frame Documentary Film Festival and won the festival’s Grand Jury award. The Chronicle sat down with director Jonathan Olshefski, producer Sabrina Schmidt Gordon, editor Lindsay Utz and stars Christopher “Quest” Rainey, Christine “Ma” Rainey and P.J. Rainey to discuss the film. The following interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Their feet stomp the ground in rhythmic rhapsody, the clomp of each girl’s boot-clad foot sharpened in mesmerizing unison. Their hands clap, slap and twist about their bodies in a fine-tuned pattern — sometimes the motions mirror the movements of their feet and sometimes their hands work alone. Their bodies whirl and jump across the stage in precise and authoritative choreography that demands undivided attention. Suddenly, their fists punch the air and their voices call out in harmony: “Who are we? L.L.O.B.”
By any measure, the Duke Coffeehouse isn’t one of the more popular spots for students on campus. Tucked away in the farther reaches of Duke’s East Campus (it’s located in the back of Crowell), the Coffeehouse has a reputation for “doing things differently,” perhaps a bit more eccentrically. If you’re looking to stop in for a quick latte or find a study space in between classes, you should probably head to Trinity Café or Vondy—the Coffeehouse, which opens at 6 p.m., is all at once a venue for live music, a space for Duke students and Durham residents alike and a spot to intimately experience art. Rarely do Coffeehouse-goers actually drink coffee or stress over work.