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News 11.01.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

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Murdoch would be laid up for the next few months but still in command, running things from his bedroom at Moraga. In an email to his senior management leaked to Vanity Fair’s Gabriel Sherman, he described the incident as “a sailing accident” and said that he would be working at home for a little while. “In the meantime,” Murdoch wrote, “you’ll be hearing from me by email, phone and text!”

It was in the midst of this moment — the biggest deal of his career — that the 86-year-old Murdoch tripped on his way to the bathroom on Lachlan’s yacht and had to be transported to Los Angeles. With their father laid up at the Ronald Reagan U.C.L.A. Medical Center at the start of 2018, Murdoch’s children descended on Los Angeles, unsure if this would be the end. Lachlan and his wife, Sarah, met them at the hospital. Elisabeth and her husband, Keith Tyson, came from London, James and Kathryn from New York. Murdoch’s surgery was successful. Not long after his children arrived, his condition stabilized. Following his near-death experience, Murdoch joked that he did not realize how serious his condition was until he had seen all his children gathered around his hospital bed.

Read the rest of this article at: The New York Times Magazine

News 11.01.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Enas was contemplating suicide. She was only 17. For three years she’d been living in Mamrashan, a remote mountain camp for displaced people in the Kurdish region of northern Iraq. Mamrashan was just one of 16 camps scattered around Duhok, a province smaller than Connecticut. At its peak, Duhok was home to nearly half a million people displaced by the Islamic State, also known as ISIS. Many have yet to return home. Two weeks earlier, her 16-year-old cousin lit herself on fire in a camp bathroom, next door to Enas’s tent. She was too scared to go to the hospital and see her cousin’s melted skin. “I saw the smoke,” Enas told me. “I could smell the body.”

She often dreamed about the night that ISIS came to kill the men in her village and enslave the women. Enas is a Yazidi, a Kurdish religious minority group of some 700,000 people, most of whom lived west of Mosul in a district called Sinjar. Her family escaped on foot, sleeping in empty stores at night. One morning, she woke to learn that her uncle and his lover had killed themselves.

It was April 2019 when we met at the camp’s “psychosocial center,” a cluster of modular buildings on the edge of a field blooming with yellow flowers. Enas, whose last name is being withheld because she is a minor, wore jeans and a colorful sweater, her long hair twisted into a tight bun. She was being treated by Ziad Ahmad Basheer, a graduate student at Iraq’s first and only master’s program in psychotherapy. Called the Institute of Psychotherapy and Psychotraumatology at the University of Duhok, the program was founded two years ago and is overseen by Jan Kizilhan, a prominent Kurdish psychologist from Germany. Its mission is to train the first generation of psychotherapists in Iraq and to integrate licensed psychotherapy into the nation’s health system and eventually the broader Middle East. Basheer will be among the first students to graduate. One of his other patients was a Yazidi who fell in love with a jihadist. They met on Facebook, but he died before she could marry him. She had told no one but Basheer about her plans.

Read the rest of this article at: The New York Times

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In person he sounds like a voiceover from an Edward Norton movie. The anti-consumer diatribes from Fight Club. The “Fuck You” monologue from 25th Hour. A dog from the isle of dogs. The speech is precise and forceful and a little nasally and like it’s always leaning forward. The voice is a reminder that he is the same Norton as ever, even if it has felt like he’s been flickering at the edges for a while, rather than blinding us from the center of the culture.

The first three years of his movie career are astonishing. Six films, each significant: Primal Fear (Oscar nomination), Everyone Says I Love You (Woody Allen), The People vs. Larry Flynt (Milos Forman), Rounders (future cult classic), American History X (another Oscar nomination), and Fight Club (David Fincher; generational cult classic). The cumulative effect of that run left him, at 30, with rare power to flex. Rare Hollywood I’m gonna make my own thing power.

This was 1999, when Edward Norton was still just an actor. Or, at least to those who admired his performances, he was an actor first. He was serious. He was talented. He was, for a certain fan of a certain age, the guy—modeling himself on Brando and Beatty, even if the ambition elicited eye rolls. That fall of ’99, Norton spotted a new Jonathan Lethem novel called Motherless Brooklyn, about a P.I. with Tourette’s. Norton was standing on top of the first peak of his career. He had ambition and swagger. He wanted to write the adaptation of this novel himself and direct it, too.

Read the rest of this article at: GQ

News 11.01.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

News 11.01.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

It was December 31, 1983, and Martin Scorsese was suiting up for a much-needed night out. The past few months had been a grueling time for the 41-year-old director: His long-in-the-works religious drama The Last Temptation of Christ had just been canceled by jittery studio execs. And his newest film, the biting celebrity-worship tale The King of Comedy, had vanished quickly from theaters. If anyone deserved a stress-free holiday, it was Scorsese. But as he readied himself for a New Year’s Eve party, his TV set blaring in the background, the filmmaker received one final reminder of just how miserable his year had been. “I was putting on my shirt and tie,” Scorsese recalled, “and Entertainment Tonight said, ‘Now, for the flop of the year: The King of Comedy.’ I just go, ‘Oh. OK.’”

It was another deflating moment in what was shaping up as the most frustrating, panic-inducing decade of Scorsese’s career. The director had made his explosive arrival in the ’70s, when the brash trifecta of Mean Streets, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, and Taxi Driver established him as one of America’s crucial new directors. That critical aut-streak would culminate in 1980’s sweat-soaked masterpiece Raging Bull. But as the Reagan era rolled in, it became clear the major studios were becoming more interested in sequels and special-effects adventures—many of them made by Scorsese’s peers—than in the brutal, truthful dramas that had flourished in the post-Vietnam era. “The industry had changed, and the day of the personal film was gone,” Scorsese lamented (and not for the last time).

Nearly 40 years later, of course, Scorsese is a cinematic crossfire hurricane—the rare filmmaker whose name is an above-the-title draw in itself, and who can secure huge stars and the occasional nine-figure budget (Netflix has reportedly spent close to $160 million on The Irishman, which opens in limited release on Friday). And many of his less successful ‘80s efforts are now seen as crucial entries in his filmography, especially The King of Comedy, which is homaged throughout Todd Phillips’s hit Joker.

Scorsese, though, spent most of those years in a state of perpetual nervousness, convinced his directing days were numbered. “He was very, very aware that he had to prove something,” noted Scorsese’s editor and longtime collaborator Thelma Schoonmaker in a documentary about the making of After Hours. So he threw himself into projects with small budgets and tight deadlines, resulting in some of his most daring, unexpected films: a pair of harshly funny New York City nightmares (The King of Comedy and After Hours); a flashy, flinty pool hall drama (The Color of Money); even a showstopping Michael Jackson video (“Bad”).

“Each one was a lesson,” Scorsese later said of the films he made in that period. And as the decade went on, those movies would slowly revive his confidence, reaffirm his commercial standing, and sharpen his already formidable filmmaking skills. (They’d also put the director on a path toward the 1990 blockbuster that would forever confirm his status as a big-screen goodfella.) But before any of that could happen, Martin Scorsese had to survive the ‘80s.

Read the rest of this article at: The Ringer

News 11.01.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

The river had cut into the plateau, or else the plateau had risen around the river. No one could say for sure in 1938. But what did it matter how it formed? It was there, this sunset-hued cleft of stone in the high country of Arizona. A warning. A challenge.

An Englishman who toured northern Arizona that year declared, “Out here is a country almost without a history,” a fantastical landscape of weird pinnacles, sheer cliffs, and menacing canyons. He was wrong, of course. The Grand Canyon had a history, printed in lines of pink and beige down its mile-deep walls, with trilobites as punctuation. Generations of Navajo, Hopi, Zuni, Havasupai, Hualapai, Southern Paiute, and Yavapai-Apache had called this place sacred and considered it home. For some of them it was the place of origin, where all humankind arose.

Tourists at Grand Canyon National Park—numbering more than 300,000 annually by the end of the 1930s—did not think of it that way. They came to the South Rim to lean over the low stone walls and gape at the Colorado River far below, a loose silver thread in a tapestry of stone. They gasped, they marveled. The river was a wild place, maybe the last wild place in America. Tourists thought of it as untrammeled, untouched, and nearly impossible to explore. And after they saw it, they went away.

Dams, though, had begun to tame the river, especially since the Boulder Dam (renamed the Hoover Dam in 1947) slammed shut its gates in 1936 and knotted the river into Lake Mead along the Arizona and Nevada border. River runners had begun to float the Colorado, but not many, and not very often. Only a dozen expeditions—just over 50 men, all told—had traversed the Grand Canyon by boat since John Wesley Powell led a government-funded expedition to map the river in 1869, during which boats were destroyed and three men vanished. Those who ventured into the canyon emerged with stories of wreckage flung along the rocks and skeletons tucked into stony alcoves clutching withered cactus pads in their bony fingers. The Colorado was considered one of the most dangerous rivers in the world.

Read the rest of this article at: The Atavist

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