Ignore the critics: Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar is not only a serious, complex comment on space policy, it’s a heartbreaking, philosophical look at the value of time.
Idea for a television show: a teenager has the power to turn fantasy into reality—but she doesn’t know it. It’s Amelia Bedelia meets Quantum Leap.
The Jazz Age blasts into orbit, adding oxygen parties and mighty pincers to the rise-and-fall decadence of the intergalactic one percent.
Our man in Boston puts the mighty Charles Yu in the ragtop and interrogates him over his background, dystopian fiction, lawyering for a day job, his lack of a creative writing graduate degree, Apple thingies, and why economists operate under pen names.
All your precious data, everything you’ve created and every memory you’ve captured and stored, is etched on a hard disk somewhere on Earth. Back it up all you want—it won’t matter if the planet goes. The search for storage beyond the cloud.
Basically, if you’re the kind of person who stays in bed on Saturday mornings with a big mug of coffee and a sheaf of reading material, this is...
Some movies inform. Some movies entertain. And some pry open your skull and punch you in the brain.