Quentin Tarantino

It’s astonishing how good a bad movie can make Brad Pitt look.

As I become more aware of the art I consume, I’m beginning to see the manifestation of gender in the tiniest of ways.

This year’s Oscar nominations showcase some of the year’s best films, and, as usual, shower praise on some of the worst.

In a night seemingly meant to be ruled by Netflix, Netflix came up short at the 77th Golden Globe Awards.

For awards season fanatics, Monday’s nominations provided an early glimpse of what to expect in the upcoming months.

My personality cannot be reduced to the cliched pretension that compels me to choose between “Pulp Fiction” and “Fight Club” for the honor of watching me sleep at night.

(Tarantino) indeed luxuriates in resurrecting 1969 Los Angeles in his image, spending plenty of time with characters listening to radio ads while speeding through spotlights in vintage cars — but the ubiquity of pop culture has purpose.

The more time I continue to spend in Berkeley, the less I care about censoring my experience with MG. My intention is never to make someone uncomfortable when I bring up my physical and emotional struggles but instead, to exercise my identity in a way that is liberating.

Writing about art put me close to so many artists. It was exhilarating. But I was only ever close.