[ditty_news_ticker id=”25027″]
The New Yorker is supposed to be the arbiter of elitist East Coast taste, telling bougie Manhattanites what fancy books to buy and what art house films to smugly pretend to enjoy in exposed brick, overpriced theaters.
Take for example what New Yorker critic Richard Brody calls the best Star Wars films of the series in his review of Rogue One: “There’s none of the Shakespearean space politics, enticingly florid dialogue, or experiential thrills of the best of George Lucas’s “Star Wars” entries (‘Attack of the Clones’ and ‘Revenge of the Sith’).” – READ MORE