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.
But should we trust this source to run our rich, sexy, liberal lives, or are they just another peddler of what’s come to be known as “fake news”?
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’).”
“Attack of the Clones” and “Revenge of the Sith”???!? Best of Lucas’ entries??!?
Brody is basically calling the two films where Hayden Christensen tried his best to give me cancer with lines like, “I don’t like sand. It’s course and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere. Not here. Here, everything is soft and smooth,” the best ones in the entire series!
The writer even links to another article where he actually says, “What endures for the critics and their lay associates, for aesthetes who live for the beauty and the pleasure of movies, is Lucas’s directing—of two films, ‘Attack of the Clones’ and, especially, ‘Revenge of the Sith.’ If Lucas had done nothing else in his life, he’d have an honored place in my personal pantheon for that work.”
How can Brody, and by extension the New Yorker, remain an arbiter of taste if Attack of the Clones was among their best choice of Star Wars movies? Without trying to sound intolerant, A New Hope and Empire Strikes Back are the only two acceptable answers to “what are the best Star Wars films?” and those who answer differently should not be allowed freedom of speech.
I don’t care if this is technically an opinion. The New Yorker is now fake news in my book.