Dir. D.W. Griffith (1918).
Lillian Gish was never more expressive, nor D.W. Griffith more Victorian, than in this beautifully composed, exquisitely directed, crassly racist 1917 symphony of sentiment.
Olitski’s paintings were racing at the fore of their moment, as if the artist could see ahead to the psychedelic biomorphs later emblazoned on headshop posters
"This walking crystallization of cankerous cynicism possesses such legendary anticharisma that there's something princely about him, something perversely impressive"
Given how aggressively Rylie’s tumors were growing and the rate at which they were consuming her bones, her team of doctors had her in the operating room in a matter of days