“Seventeen Moments of Spring,” where Tikhonov played his arguably most famous and iconic role, always gave me the warm fuzzies with its ending. It talked about how this Soviet spy, who doesn’t yet know that the war will be ending later in the year, in May, is going to Berlin to continue with his work.Continue reading “R.I.P. Vyacheslav Tikhonov”
And one would be incorrect. And, you know, the thing about Patrick Stewart, what makes him so infinitely watchable, is the fact that whenever a character of his has a supremely difficult moment, you know that it’s coming from a real place inside of him, and yet it is also very dignified. And I don’tContinue reading “One would think that it is not scientifically possible for Patrick Stewart to be even more amazing”
I admire Chekhov, and not just for his writing, and not just because he was startlingly hot either. To paraphrase Ivan Bunin, Chekhov was not a little bitch. Even when he knew he was dying from TB, he didn’t whine hysterically from the pages of Russian literary journals. He didn’t ask his readers for hugs.Continue reading “Depression: at the Black Gate with Anton Chekhov and Leroy Jenkins”
Crappy phone camera, crappy light, good subjects. It’s rare to have three intense young men in a marshrutka, in a row, and none of them swearing at a girlfriend over his mobile or something jarring like that. It’s rare – or maybe I don’t keep my eyes peeled all that much. He is not halfContinue reading “Marshrutka moment: ducks in a row”
Tell me they’re not flirting here. In that whole mannnly way. You know. The kind I like. Nose-to-nose, baby. Hat-tip to Sarah.