In the simple world that it posits, there is no World but the Hockey Rink. There is no Universe but the Firmament of Floating Crowd Heads. There is no Time but the Match Clock. There is no Woman, and there are but four categories of Man: there is Goalie, Fat Man, Average Man, and Skinny Man. There are Soviet Russians. There is no fucking around. Good luck, cupcake.
Nobody ever wants to wake up at 7 am, particularly not on a Sunday. But on September 21 after a few hours of sleep, I trooped out to buses in Lot 32 for the People’s Climate March at the behest of a particularly insistent friend.
When I walk down Witherspoon Street away from the iconic FitzRandolph Gate that shelters Princeton University students from the town around them, my feet head toward the place that feels most like home. If it is a beautiful sunny day … Read More
Dear Readers,
As we all know, for many years the Daily Princetonian has wallowed in a sea somewhere below mediocrity. Whether book reports masquerading as cultural reviews, Captain Obvious news articles pretending to be incisive, or just plain bad writing, we can always count on our favorite daily to drop the ball.
When the Antlers released Hospice in 2009 on Frenchkiss Records, the band established itself as a project of personal catharsis for its frontman, Peter Silberman. Designated a concept album, Hospice channeled Silberman’s past romantic failures into a story of two individuals confined to a cancer ward: a hospice worker and the terminally ill patient he gradually falls in love with.
Although the films display a wide range of subject matter, they share a common purpose: to make the spectators’ experience part of the movie itself, “like ruins or outlines where the viewers have to fill in the gap,” as featured Spanish director José Luis Guerín put it.
