Archive | Book Matters

Q&A: Team ‘He Named Me Malala’

“Just because she has become a P.R. machine doesn’t mean she’s not the real deal,” said director Davis Guggenheim of Malala Yousafzai, the eighteen-year-old education activist who was shot in the head in 2012 and lived to tell her story. We were at New York’s The London hotel, where, along with producers Laurie MacDonald and Walter Parkes, Guggenheim had convened to discuss “He Named Me Malala,” their documentary about the Pakistani teenager who had become a Nobel Peace Prize laureate, opening October 2. At times, the conversation, though polite, became quite charged.

Because he was in a room of mostly American journalists, one of the first questions lobbed at Guggenheim was, “How, as filmmakers, did you navigate the fact that Malala has become a brand?”

“I understand why you have to ask that,” said Guggenheim, with a professorial patience. “But I live in a very nice Hollywood ghetto and my process is to make the stories I want to make, which is very separate from brand-making.” (Among the director’s previous projects is the Academy Award-winning eco-documentary “An Inconvenient Truth.”) Continue Reading →

We’re All Hotel Clerks

There are moments when I feel I am nothing but the small clerk of some hotel without a proprietor, who has all his work cut out to enter the names and hand the keys to the willful guests.–Katherine Mansfield

I came across this in Tracy Daugherty’s Joan Didion biography, The Last Love Song, which I’ve been reading thirstily and disdainfully. I don’t mind the anonymity the quote describes, but I’ve been flashing on it as I’ve been watching the day turn to night. Sun’s turning all kinds of neon bruises that’ll disappear with her grand exit, permakitten Grace and I are admiring from the kitchen window, and there’s this feeling–immense, bottomless–of all of us passing through each other without leaving a dent. What’s interesting is how completely I’ve come to accept this. It’s not sad, not really. It’s just the fourth dimension, slicing through our existential chatter.

A Very Literary NY Film Festival

It’s that time again. Along with the autumnal equinox, the Jewish New Year, and, this year, the East Coast visit of the Pope, the New York Film Festival is kicking off its fifty-third lineup with a signature mix of high-brow fare from around the world and mainstream entertainment. As always, a significant portion of the program promises to be literary-minded, so I’ve compiled a list of the adaptations that intrigue me most.

“Arabian Nights Volumes 1, 2, and 3”
Portuguese writer/director Miguel Gomes (and co-writer Mariana Ricardo) uses folk tales from the eponymous book to paint a portrait of Portugal’s current (and rather bleak) economic realities. At roughly 338 minutes, it is not for the faint of heart (The New York Times’s Manohla Dargis called it an “indulgence“) but the ever-maverick Gomes channels a rich, intellectually rigorous absurdism that suits the film’s sketch-within-a-sketch anthology format. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy