So, I wanna talk about Spike Jonze, “Her” and the old, old debate about an author’s ability to decide how exactly their work is interpreted. And about the BBC, I guess.
The Champions League returned only to affirm what members of the media were expecting: English teams are not among Europe's elite.
When Irrational Games shut its door last week, the industry lost a prominent developer that placed a strict focus on narrative. While "Bioshock Infinite" may not have been the savior everyone hoped it might be, it shipped over four million copies and if nothing else, created a worthwhile dialogue about the nature of sustaining a compelling narrative within the context of a typical AAA shooter.
Here’s the thing about the vast majority of bad decisions in sports: They are at least partially explainable.
It was a night like any other. I wrapped myself in a blanket burrito, took to the television and traversed the channels until I happened upon HBO’s latest endeavor—an eight-episode collection called "True Detective." Its menacing black claws had me ensnared by the end of the first episode and with each passing week, they dig deeper and deeper into my psyche. If I could go back in time, maybe I wouldn’t have chosen this path—alas, there is no turning back.
Students on college campuses have relied on the same crop of multiplayer games to provide enjoyment for what seems like forever now. “Mario Kart,” “Mario Party” and various sports games are always excellent staples, but there’s been a movement afoot in the PC space to create a greater emphasis on local couch co-op. Rather than battling some folks around the world in “Halo”, why not take a trip to yesteryear and enjoy rubbing defeat in your buddies’ faces while they sit next to you.
Kyrie Irving approached this All-Star weekend with hopes of defending his 3-point contest title.
The National Basketball Association All-Star game is boring. Even a big comeback and close game couldn’t save the event from playing to a stereotype of the NBA as a league high on star power but low on real competition. No one believes that when you bring together the NBA’s best players, 318 total points scored is a natural result.
The United States and Russia have long had a bitter rivalry on the rink that dates back to their 1980 “miracle on ice” showdown.
The future of television is upon us. Well, at least for those of us with Wi-Fi. The relative ubiquity of the Internet and the increasing popularity of streaming technologies have prompted some of our favorite Internet startups to begin dabbling in the production of their own original series. Netflix, previously an exclusive online distribution service, proved itself as a competitive force in the arena of original programming this past year after the release of a few critically acclaimed series—namely “House of Cards” and “Orange Is the New Black.” Their success has not gone unnoticed and we now find ourselves in the midst of a digital arms race, with companies like YouTube, Hulu, Yahoo, Amazon and a handful of others all vying for a piece of the viewership pie.
My hope is one day we get to a point where the story of Missouri football star Michael Sam is centered around immense success at the collegiate level after coming from a tragic background.
So, lately I’ve been trying to gain an understanding of avant-garde films, seeing that I know basically nothing about them. And in my meandering through these new experiences, I’ve developed a new analogy I guess—a new way of thinking about film, which I will now present for your consideration and entertainment, in honor of the upcoming holiday.
"Flappy Bird” is dead. The simplistic app that dominated the cultural zeitgeist this past week seems to have perished more quickly than most of my pitiful attempts at its egregiously difficult gameplay. Countless articles were published chronicling the insightful commentary “Flappy Bird’s” success provided for an industry that generally succeeds on stagnation.
Marcus Smart is not a happy camper. His Oklahoma State team has pulled “a Wisconsin” by losing five of their last six games and now, he’s in some very hot water over his actions at Texas Tech.
January has come and gone. Its passing marks the end of yet another season of the show we love to hate: “American Horror Story.” Let me preface this by admitting I was once a fan of its hijinks. The first season had me teetering on obsession. While other, more proactive students focused on expanding their intelligence, I was engrossed in the fictional world of haunted houses, gruesome murders and unrelenting mystery. Sure, I recognized its flair for the ridiculous—at times it resembled a trip through the halls of a bad haunted house, simultaneously inducing both frights and laughter. But I didn’t care—it was wildly entertaining.
It doesn’t get much better than this past weekend if you’re a Badger fan.
Like he is quite accustomed to, David Beckham entered with fans chanting his name to the stage that was overlooking the calm water, still trees and an 80-degree Miami morning.