Love and Mercy, or: how not to make a biopic, in 5 easy steps

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Love & Mercy is a bad film made with the best of intentions.

It has been championed by various critics and has its fair share of blurb-ready accolades, but, with all due respect, those people are mistaken. To its great credit, however, it provides an opportunity to examine exactly why the biopic is such a toxic, unpleasant, and inherently ridiculous affair.

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The grand, personal sweep of the Apu Trilogy

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There are dozens upon dozens of indelible moments in Satyajit Ray’s Apu Trilogy that could be held up as emblematic of the glorious whole, its empathy and gentle wisdom. The three films – Pather Panchali (1955, and filmed over the course of the previous four years), Aparajito (1956), and The World of Apu (1959) – are awash in masterful touches, perfectly framed and naturalistically performed scenes, psychological depth, and haunting beauty.

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The Women Are Coming: Mid-Century Indian Feminism in The Big City

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The Big City, Indian master Satyajit Ray’s deeply feminist and empathetic 1963 depiction of a changing Calcutta, is nearly perfect in every way.

With nuanced performances, especially from the luminous Madhabi Mukherjee as Arati Mazumder and Anil Chatterjee as her wry, conflicted husband Subrata (Bhambal), and an effortless sense of place, custom, and the economic pressures that challenge tradition, the film is an utterly absorbing experience, by turns uplifting and heart-rending.

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Nathan Rabin, and Giving the World the Benefit of the Doubt

Note: This was written as part of The Dissolve commentariat’s tribute to Nathan Rabin.

In a recent piece, Nathan Rabin reflected on a vicious review his memoir received, which baselessly took him to task for snark and cynicism.

Although this particular review didn’t have much ground to stand on, he (rather generously) concedes: “I realized I sometimes used humor, or at least jokiness, as a crutch so I resolved to be more nakedly sincere and open in my writing.

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Mostly Terrible Movies In A Baltimore Hotel

As a committed luddite and card-carrying hipster douchebag, I obviously have no regular access to a medium so pedestrian as “television.” But as someone shaped by the technology around me and in some ways desirous of it — let’s call this the “robot” part of the equation — I also obviously seize every opportunity to watch someone else’s television whenever possible.

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In 1986, Don Johnson finally had the chance to sing, and the world was ready

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Note: This was originally posted as part of The Dissolve commentariat’s tribute to Nathan Rabin. The idea was to continue some of the columns he started before he was unceremoniously bounced. Thanks, Nathan, for being the most consistently entertaining and insightful pop culture writer working today, and apologies in advance for the pale facsimile that follows.

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