This review of Tequila Sunrise originally appeared in 1988 at The New Yorker and is reprinted here with permission from Pauline Kael’s daughter, Gina James.
What can it mean for jazz as a living art when the most hotly debated genre event of 2014 was a satirical post on a humor blog? Only Charlie Haden's death earlier that month can rival the New Yorker's awkward July 31 unveiling of writer Django Gold's "Sonny Rollins: In His Own Words," a 480-word goof later appended…
On Saturday in Cooperstown, Roger Angell was given the J. G. Taylor Spink Award, the baseball Hall of Fame's writing writing honor. His sports writing career is a happy accident that began in 1962 when Angell went to spring training to write about New York's new team, the Mets. He was a 41-year-old fiction editor…
The New Yorker, a magazine, has just opened its Internet "archives" (dating back to 2007) as a readers' jubilee in advance of its upcoming move to the world of paywalled journalism, three months hence. So much New Yorker to muck around in! So many words! So many stories! So many stories with so many words in them!
Wildly successful proverb investigator Malcolm Gladwell is a writer for The New Yorker, the most prestigious magazine journalism outlet in America. Despite this fact, he says that—as a policy—he does not do journalism.
Jane Gross to Roger Angell in his 1979 New Yorker story, "Sharing the Beat" (subscription required):
The New Yorker is a standard-bearer of American literary reportage. The Paul Finebaum Radio Network, Alabama talk radio's most popular source for sports-related Southern exceptionalism, is, uh, not. But that doesn't mean the two can't make a happy pair.
Every Friday, SportsFeat picks a few great weekend reads for Deadspin. With things sweltering outside, we went looking for stories that might remind us of what it feels like to be cold. We found these instead.
Every Friday, SportsFeat picks a few great weekend reads for Deadspin. In honor of Derek Jeter and his labored quest for 3,000 hits, here are well-told stories of ballplayers just before, in the years after, or at the exact moment they retired.
Ben McGrath takes up the slumming-dandy-goes-to-a-ballgame mantle from Roger Angell (who should be filing his account of the 2003 World Series any day now) and manages not only to name-check this humble site but let drop the bonnest of mots: