the master of my sea
Про экранизации книг, Дилана, Ван Ронка, Saving Mister Banks и Толкина 
Про Ван Ронка и Дилана:
And there is a deeper, sadder story in the book, too. Van Ronk almost had it all: talent, exuberance, voice, appetite, wisdom—everything but genius. Then Bob Dylan showed up from Minnesota—telling various tales about places he had never actually been, with his naff, made-up name—having nothing but genius. This is the story of a Salieri and a Mozart, in which the Salieri is (as the real Salieri doubtless was, too) bemused and bewildered and touched by the strange workings of God’s hands in providing genius, and denying it, so arbitrarily. Van Ronk’s Dylan is—apart from his significant devotion to Woody Guthrie—selfish, vain, driven, and blind even to the mockery that his strange singing inspires. He sticks to his weirdness, sleeps on Van Ronk’s sofa, borrows a book of Rimbaud lyrics, and then, a year or so later, there he is, inventing the taste by which he must be judged. Van Ronk’s grace in accepting this, and all that came after, is amazing.
ыыы, фиг с ними, с Коэнами, я хочу эту книгу
про Тома Хэнкса (и это несмотря на то што кено афтару не понравилось )
Hanks, as Disney, gives the most subtle performance of his career, making the cartoon-meister one of those handsome, dark-souled, mid-century middle-Americans who built amazing empires but were never truly at ease, even in worlds they had wholly made for their own pleasure, while dominating their employees with coercive, first-name intimacy.
ладно, уговорил, посмотрю
Про экранизацию Толкина:
I fear that Tolkien will never entirely recover from Peter Jackson’s violent, spectacular wolves and C.G.I. Orcs, his too-cute Hobbits and too-tall dwarves. (Tolkien’s own son Christopher speaks of how “the chasm between the beauty and seriousness of the work, and what it has become, has overwhelmed me.”)
ыыы. Dear Christopher, you are not alone
Про Ван Ронка и Дилана:
And there is a deeper, sadder story in the book, too. Van Ronk almost had it all: talent, exuberance, voice, appetite, wisdom—everything but genius. Then Bob Dylan showed up from Minnesota—telling various tales about places he had never actually been, with his naff, made-up name—having nothing but genius. This is the story of a Salieri and a Mozart, in which the Salieri is (as the real Salieri doubtless was, too) bemused and bewildered and touched by the strange workings of God’s hands in providing genius, and denying it, so arbitrarily. Van Ronk’s Dylan is—apart from his significant devotion to Woody Guthrie—selfish, vain, driven, and blind even to the mockery that his strange singing inspires. He sticks to his weirdness, sleeps on Van Ronk’s sofa, borrows a book of Rimbaud lyrics, and then, a year or so later, there he is, inventing the taste by which he must be judged. Van Ronk’s grace in accepting this, and all that came after, is amazing.
ыыы, фиг с ними, с Коэнами, я хочу эту книгу
про Тома Хэнкса (и это несмотря на то што кено афтару не понравилось
)Hanks, as Disney, gives the most subtle performance of his career, making the cartoon-meister one of those handsome, dark-souled, mid-century middle-Americans who built amazing empires but were never truly at ease, even in worlds they had wholly made for their own pleasure, while dominating their employees with coercive, first-name intimacy.
ладно, уговорил, посмотрю
Про экранизацию Толкина:
I fear that Tolkien will never entirely recover from Peter Jackson’s violent, spectacular wolves and C.G.I. Orcs, his too-cute Hobbits and too-tall dwarves. (Tolkien’s own son Christopher speaks of how “the chasm between the beauty and seriousness of the work, and what it has become, has overwhelmed me.”)
ыыы. Dear Christopher, you are not alone