Last October, during the CMJ Music Marathon in New York City, Arcade Fire played a pair of not-so-secret shows in Brooklyn under the pseudonym “The Reflektors,” the title of their new album. At a converted warehouse space that held about 3,000 people, tickets sold out instantly for the two shows and within minutes, tickets on StubHub ranged from $220 to $5,000.
Last summer, I holed up in an air-conditioned room and didn’t resurface until I had binged the entire first season of "House of Cards," Netflix’s first successful stab at original programming. The opening scene is still as vivid in my mind today as it was those many months ago—we hear a dog get hit by a car offscreen and an impeccably dressed Frank Underwood (Kevin Spacey) arrives at the pitiful scene. While wrapping his bare hands around the neck of the whimpering dog, he looks directly at the camera and delivers the first of many monologues in a quaint, southern accent. He squeezes until its cries become faint and, after a few seconds, they cease altogether. We get the sense that Frank Underwood is the epitome of a ruthless pragmatist and a perfect spokesperson for the political underworld.
The 2014 Winter Olympics officially came to a close this past week, but not before the United States, and the world, learned the name of a very unique 18-year-old.
Books and literature have never been just about entertainment. To say that one merely reads “for fun” would be nothing short of the kind of travesty only previously seen when someone fell asleep during Star Wars. Just so you know, they never find the bodies.
When I was told I would be able to write a film column, I knew exactly what to write about—the soundtrack.
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.
On the surface, the National Football League is doing great.
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.
Where did you grow up? Who was your team? What jersey did you get for your seventh birthday when being an athlete was the only job you ever wanted?
"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.
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Solutions by The State News
