July 3, 2012 First Person On Uncle Vanya: Part Two By Clancy Martin But how I got to thinking about my drunken love affair, years ago in Saint Petersburg, is Sam Gold’s new production of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, playing now at the Soho Rep. It’s ninety-nine-cent Sunday, and the line of sweaty New Yorkers edging for shade outside the eighty-seat theater is long. They are bored and tired. It’s a muggy ninety degrees. “We’re never going to get in,” I hear one complain to another; later, outside the bathroom, where they sell vodka shots for three dollars a piece, I hear an excited woman say to her date: “I can’t believe we made it!” Most of the people who stood or sat in line (many since two P.M.) did not see the show. My own guests, who had driven in from the Bronx for the production, were turned away. “I’m the reviewer,” I tried to convince the guy at the door. “Man, we don’t get lines like this, even for the Sunday show. I’ll have a revolt. It wouldn’t be fair.” My friends went to see a movie, and my date and I went to our corner seats, right by the couch where the Professor would later be shot (and not). Read More
July 3, 2012 On the Shelf Rap, Poetry, and Cats By The Paris Review The London Olympics may be a couple of weeks away, but the poetry Olympics have already begun. Science-based art. The Elements of Style, as rap video. An appreciation of illustrator R.O. Blechman. Bookstore cats across America. [tweetbutton] [facebook_ilike]
July 2, 2012 Books Size By Leanne Shapton I am the first one in Stockholm’s Centralbadet this Monday morning, followed by James, then by an old man wearing big yellow goggles, who does a steady breaststroke around the perimeter of the pool. Watching him, I switch to breaststroke myself and match his speed. It feels comfortable. It feels relaxing. As the three of us swim counterclockwise, I channel my old age, my flabby form, my unself-conscious senior. I think of the two older women I passed in the locker room, whose modest black tanks encased humps and bones and bumpy flesh. The cruel phrase a friend once used to describe a woman’s backside: “a bagful of doorknobs.” I watch my hands trace their double ellipse in front of me, my mother’s wrists, my grandmother’s knuckles. Read More
July 2, 2012 First Person On Uncle Vanya: Part 1 By Clancy Martin I was in Saint Petersburg, at a restaurant owned by a friend. It was in a strange building, a kind of old mansion. He took me back through several empty ballrooms—you could feel the springs beneath the wooden floors, installed many years ago, for dancing. We sat together in a small room. It had only two tables, and its windows were hung with heavy curtains. It was one of those private dining rooms that you read about in Russian novels, and my friend began to bring me different dishes. I recognized only the blini with black and red caviar; everything else was new to me. At this time, thirteen years ago, I was a wine drinker, but they did not have wine worth drinking in Saint Petersburg then, and he was pouring me glasses of vodka. Then several government officials arrived, important men, and he left me alone. I noticed my waitress was beautiful. She was taller than me, with high aristocratic cheekbones, pale skin, lips full of blood, big firm tits. Very much the woman you want, if you want a Russian beauty. The type that has since made exported Russian prostitutes famous throughout Europe, the Middle East, and (lately) even large cities in the U.S. I was determined to have sex with a Russian whom I did not have to pay. Read More
July 2, 2012 On the Shelf Books, Crime, and Punishment! By The Paris Review Master book thief Anders Burius stole the 1597 Wytfliet Atlas a decade ago; now, it has turned up in New York, and will be returned to the Swedish Royal Library. A New Mexico woman was jailed for failing to return a copy of Twilight to the library. (Charges have since been dropped.) An Argentinian independent publisher Eterna Cadencia adds an element of urgency to reading, by publishing books in disappearing ink. A lawyer requests time off from a murder trial to attend the famed Key West Hemingway Lookalike Contest. And is denied. A handy chart helps you choose your beach read.
June 29, 2012 Ask The Paris Review How Do I Break My Trash Addiction? By Sadie Stein Dear Paris Review, For the last few months I have been rotting my brain with nothing but trash. (I am ashamed to admit how trashy, but let’s just say a certain mommy-porn trilogy may have been involved.) And the worst part is, now I find myself unable to read anything good. How do I transition back to respectable books? Sincerely, Trashy Dear T., I think this has happened to a lot of us, in one form or another. I’ve also had a variation on this experience with movies: the Ozus and Bergmans in my Netflix queue mock me as I sheepishly skip over them, yet again, in favor of season 2 of The Borgias or some competitive-cooking show that forces people to re-create a taste memory using one hand, a Bunsen burner, and a palm frond. Sometimes we need transitional fare, the literary equivalent of a basically formulaic romantic comedy with a low budget and indie pretensions, if you will. The good news is, there is no shortage of reads that are every bit as fun as what you term trash, but won’t leave you feeling like you just wasted six hours of your life. Lorin gave a good rundown not long ago. To his list I’d add classics like The Secret History, Case Histories, The Handmaid’s Tale, and Bonjour Tristesse, and newer titles Skippy Dies, The Chaperone, and Ghost Lights. If you like thrillers, there’s no shortage. I enjoy Tana French, although she’s not everyone’s idea of a beach read. If you’re really having a tough time weaning yourself, maybe try a different genre entirely: humorous essays always go down easy, and, along the same lines, short-story collections provide a gradual transition. Personally, I’m a sucker for a juicy biography: The Sisters, American Gothic, and Savage Beauty all got me through periods of intellectual exhaustion. Good luck, and I look forward to more suggestions from our readers! Have a question for the editors of The Paris Review? E-mail us.