newyorker.com / .newyorker-com-magazine / Page 6

When it comes to the Italian holiday loaf, there's magnificence and there's stultifying disappointment, with little in between.

Two scathing new productions satisfy our hunger for dysfunction-driven entertainment.

"The Brutalist," the director's nearly four-hour study of immigration, identity, and marriage, flowed from his own struggle to create art without compromise. "You really have to dare to suck to transcend," he said.

Also: The ambient gospel of Laraaji, a new Annie Leibovitz exhibition, a louche lineup at Joe's Pub.

The director, whose latest film, "Oh, Canada," opened this December, discusses four of his favorites.

In his early prose narrative, "Monsieur Teste," the great French poet created an alter ego even more aloof and elusive than he was.

"I really wish people / would dance at receptions."

Short reviews of recent releases.

Need to forget the state of the world? Escape to this city hideaway, complete with non-leaky air mattresses and easy access to the fire escape through a hidden kitchen nook!

Why should American exceptionalism end at the red-light district?