Noah Movie Quotes

We change and we discover who we really are.” – Noah

It's that thing when you're with someone, and you love them and they know it, and they love you and you know it... but it's a party... and you're both talking to other people, and you're laughing and shining... and you look across the room and catch each other's eyes... but - but not because you're possessive, or it's precisely sexual... but because... that is your person in this life. And it's funny and sad, but only because this life will end, and it's this secret world that exists right there in public, unnoticed, that no one else knows about. It's sort of like how they say that other dimensions exist all around us, but we don't have the ability to perceive them. That's - That's what I want out of a relationship. Or just life, I guess.

Liam really enjoyed a good movie. He found it restful to watch people's conversations without being expected to join in. But he always felt sort of lonesome if he didn't have someone next to him to nudge in the ribs at the good parts.

Indeed, many movies about artificial intelligence are so divorced from scientific reality that one suspects they are just allegories of completely different concerns. Thus the 2015 movie Ex Machina seems to be about an AI expert who falls in love with a female robot only to be duped and manipulated by her. But in reality, this is not a movie about the human fear of intelligent robots. It is a movie about the male fear of intelligent women, and in particular the fear that female liberation might lead to female domination. Whenever you see a movie about an AI in which the AI is female and the scientist is male, it’s probably a movie about feminism rather than cybernetics. For why on earth would an AI have a sexual or a gender identity? Sex is a characteristic of organic multicellular beings. What can it possibly mean for a non-organic cybernetic being?

He said, “I know somebody you could kiss.” “Who?” She realized his eyes were amused. “Oh, wait.” He shrugged. He was maybe the only person Blue knew who could preserve the integrity of a shrug while lying down. “It’s not like you’re going to kill me. I mean, if you were curious.” She hadn’t thought she was curious. It hadn’t been an option, after all. Not being able to kiss someone was a lot like being poor. She tried not to dwell on the things she couldn’t have. But now— “Okay,” she said. “What?” “I said okay.” He blushed. Or rather, because he was dead, he became normal colored. “Uh.” He propped himself on an elbow. “Well.” She unburied her face from the pillow. “Just, like—” He leaned toward her. Blue felt a thrill for a half a second. No, more like a quarter second. Because after that she felt the too-firm pucker of his tense lips. His mouth mashed her lips until it met teeth. The entire thing was at once slimy and ticklish and hilarious. They both gasped an embarrassed laugh. Noah said, “Bah!” Blue considered wiping her mouth, but felt that would be rude. It was all fairly underwhelming. She said, “Well.” “Wait,” Noah replied, “waitwaitwait.” He pulled one of Blue’s hairs out of his mouth. “I wasn’t ready.” He shook out his hands as if Blue’s lips were a sporting event and cramping was a very real possibility. “Go,” Blue said. This time they only got within a breath of each other’s lips when they both began to laugh. She closed the distance and was rewarded with another kiss that felt a lot like kissing a dishwasher. “I’m doing something wrong?” she suggested. “Sometimes it’s better with tongue,” he replied dubiously. They regarded each other. Blue squinted, “Are you sure you’ve done this before?” “Hey!” he protested. “It’s weird for me, ‘cause it’s you.” “Well, it’s weird for me because it’s you.” “We can stop.” “Maybe we should.” Noah pushed himself up farther on his elbow and gazed at the ceiling vaguely. Finally, he dropped his eyes back to her. “You’ve seen, like, movies. Of kisses, right? Your lips need to be, like, wanting to be kissed.” Blue touched her mouth. “What are they doing now?” “Like, bracing themselves.” She pursed and unpursed her lips. She saw his point. “So imagine one of those,” Noah suggested. She sighed and sifted through her memories until she found one that would do. It wasn’t a movie kiss, however. It was the kiss the dreaming tree had showed her in Cabeswater. Her first and only kiss with Gansey, right before he died. She thought about his nice mouth when he smiled. About his pleasant eyes when he laughed. She closed her eyes. Placing an elbow on the other side of her head, Noah leaned close and kissed her once more. This time, it was more of a thought than a feeling, a soft heat that began at her mouth and unfurled through the rest of her. One of his cold hands slid behind her neck and he kissed her again, lips parted. It was not just a touch, an action. It was a simplification of both of them: They were no longer Noah Czerny and Blue Sargent. They were now just him and her. Not even that. They were only the time that they held between them.

If you were an eighteen-year-old youth in a small village 5,000 years ago you’d probably think you were good-looking because there were only fifty other men in your village and most of them were either old, scarred and wrinkled, or still little kids. But if you are a teenager today you are a lot more likely to feel inadequate. Even if the other guys at school are an ugly lot, you don’t measure yourself against them but against the movie stars, athletes and supermodels you see all day on television, Facebook and giant billboards.

If happiness is determined by expectations, then two pillars of our society – mass media and the advertising industry – may unwittingly be depleting the globe’s reservoirs of contentment. If you were an eighteen-year-old youth in a small village 5,000 years ago you’d probably think you were good-looking because there were only fifty other men in your village and most of them were either old, scarred and wrinkled, or still little kids. But if you are a teenager today you are a lot more likely to feel inadequate. Even if the other guys at school are an ugly lot, you don’t measure yourself against them but against the movie stars, athletes and supermodels you see all day on television, Facebook and giant billboards.

I want to keep him.”  “Bruh. Those are thinking thoughts not speaking thoughts,” Noah coached. “You can’t just go around telling strangers you’ve imprinted on them like some werewolf in a Twilight movie. They won’t get it.

...epic, epic love is not about having someone. It's about being willing to give them up. It's sacrifice. It's my mom's theater tickets stuffed down at the bottom of her jewelry box. It's Noah and August. It's my sister and Annabelle. It's Jordan and his mom, the truth he reserves to protect her. And see, that's the thing I didn't understand. The thing no one tells you. That just because you find love doesn't mean it's yours to keep. Love never belongs to you. It belongs to the universe.

Throughout the movie, we moved to eat popcorn, shifted to get comfortable, only to end up uncomfortable; an awkward dance of keeping my hands and parts from familiar and unfamiliar areas of Echo’s divine body. I was capable of being a gentleman for the length of one movie, at least. The credits roled and my left hand, which I’d placed behind my head to avoid her tempting tummy, tingled with numbness. My patience finaly snapped. “This is ridiculous.” I swept her up and swung her over my shoulder, her bare feet dangling in front of me. Tinkling laughter filed the room. “What are you doing?” I tossed her onto the bed. Her fire-red hair sprawled over the pilow. My siren smiled up at me. “Getting comfortable,” I said. " -Noah's POV

Relax. Everything is going exactly as planned.” “You know who says that? That one person in every movie right before it all goes to shit,” Noah said, earning another amused smirk from Adam.

Two clichés make us laugh,” writes Umberto Eco in his essay on Casablanca, “but a hundred clichés move us because we sense dimly that the clichés are talking among themselves, celebrating a reunion.” Just

We see then that the self too is an imaginary story, just like nations, gods and money. Each of us has a sophisticated system that throws away most of our experiences, keeps only a few choice samples, mixes them up with bits from movies we’ve seen, novels we’ve read, speeches we’ve heard, and daydreams we’ve savoured, and out of all that jumble it weaves a seemingly coherent story about who I am, where I came from and where I am going. This story tells me what to love, whom to hate and what to do with myself. This story may even cause me to sacrifice my life, if that’s what the plot requires. We all have our genre. Some people live a tragedy, others inhabit a never-ending religious drama, some approach life as if it were an action film, and not a few act as if in a comedy. But in the end, they are all just stories.

I felt my thoughts drift to that scene in The Notebook -- the one where Noah and Allie lie in the middle of the empty road. You could not be that romantic in England. I'd get frostbite of the bumhole if Harry and I lay on the ice tonight.

Although my perception might have been distorted by melancholy, it seemed to me that most of those people were in pairs, the larger percentage of them holding hands, as if they were extras in a movie of high romance, accessorizing a scene for which the director's purpose might have been to say that life was a parade lived two-by-two, as it had been since before Noah's fabled ark and as it would be always.

A movie is a one-night stand; a novel is a commitment.

sum up Casablanca in just four clipped, declarative sentences: “Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl back again. Boy gives up girl for humanity’s sake.

The basic plot of almost all movies and novels about AI revolves around the magical moment when a computer or a robot gains consciousness.

I want to keep him.” “Bruh. Those are thinking thoughts not speaking thoughts,” Noah coached. “You can’t just go around telling strangers you’ve imprinted on them like some werewolf in a Twilight movie. They won’t get it.

At present we trust Netflix to recommend movies, and Google Maps to choose whether we turn right or left. But once we begin to count on AI to decide what to study, where to work, and whom to marry, human life will cease to be a drama of decision-making.

It was the same with movies. My mom didn’t want my mind polluted by movies with sex and violence. So the Bible was my action movie. Samson was my superhero. He was my He-Man. A guy beating a thousand people to death with the jawbone of a donkey? That’s pretty badass.

Science-fiction movies generally assume that in order to match and surpass human intelligence, computers will have to develop consciousness. But real science tells a different story. There might be several alternative ways leading to super-intelligence, only some of which pass through the straits of consciousness.

Each of us has a sophisticated system that throws away most of our experiences, keeps only a few choice samples, mixes them up with bits from movies we’ve seen, novels we’ve read, speeches we’ve heard, and daydreams we’ve savoured, and out of all that jumble it weaves a seemingly coherent story about who I am, where I came from and where I am going. This story tells me what to love, whom to hate and what to do with myself. This story may even cause me to sacrifice my life, if that’s what the plot requires. We all have our genre. Some people live a tragedy, others inhabit a never-ending religious drama, some approach life as if it were an action film, and not a few act as if in a comedy. But in the end, they are all just stories. What,

People will love people no matter what terrible shit they do.   We forgive people, even when they don’t ask for forgiveness.   When there is no atonement, no penance.   Why do we love people? Why do we forgive evil? Stupidity— Shallowness— the darkest motives. We forgive because we are attached, we have known them a long time, we have put them into the category of family or friend. We want to have sex with them. Because they entertain us.   We even forgive child molesters if they make good movies.   The unspeakable truth is that we need written laws that have mystic origins— with weapons to keep them upheld.   Because we are too forgiving of our friends and family. We take their side, even when we know they are wrong, and lying.   The world would collapse into chaos without law not because we are savage beasts, but because we are so forgiving.

Do you know what an inciting incident is?' Noah says as he turns off the engine. I shake my head. 'It's the point at the start of a movie where something happens to the hero that changes their live forever. You've seen Harry Potter, right?' I nod. 'Well, the inciting incident in that movie is when Hagrid tells Harry Potter he'll be a great wizard someday and gives him the invite to Hogwarts.' 'Oh right.' Noah looks down in his lap, like he's embarassed. 'I think that's what you might be to me.' 'What? A wizard?' 'No! My inciting incident.' I glance at him. In half-light of the car park, his cheekbones look even more chiselled than ever. 'What do you mean?' I ask, hardly daring to believe what I think he means. 'I mean, Ithink this might be the start of something.' We sat in silence. 'I think you might be my inciting incident too,' I say with a small smile.

We see then that the self too is an imaginary story, just like nations, gods and money. Each of us has a sophisticated system that throws away most of our experiences, keeps only a few choice samples, mixes them up with bits from movies we’ve seen, novels we’ve read, speeches we’ve heard, and daydreams we’ve savoured, and out of all that jumble it weaves a seemingly coherent story about who I am, where I came from and where I am going.

All stories are incomplete. Yet in order to construct a viable identity for myself and give meaning to my life, I don’t really need a complete story devoid of blind spots and internal contradictions. To give meaning to my life, a story needs to satisfy just two conditions: first, it must give me some role to play. A New Guinean tribesman is unlikely to believe in Zionism or in Serbian nationalism, because these stories don’t care at all about New Guinea and its people. Like movie stars, humans like only those scripts that reserve an important role for them. Second, whereas a good story need not extend to infinity, it must extend beyond my horizons. The story provides me with an identity and gives meaning to my life by embedding me within something bigger than myself. But there is always a danger that I might start wondering what gives meaning to that ‘something bigger’. If the meaning of my life is to help the proletariat or the Polish nation, what exactly gives meaning to the proletariat or to the Polish nation? There is a story of a man who claimed that the world is kept in place by resting on the back of a huge elephant. When asked what the elephant stands on, he replied “that it stands on the back of a large turtle. And the turtle? On the back of an even bigger turtle. And that bigger turtle? The man snapped and said: ‘Don’t bother about it. From there onwards it’s turtles all the way down.

Does that mean scientists should start writing science fiction? That is actually not such a bad idea. Art plays a key role in shaping people's view of the world, and in the twenty-first century science fiction is arguably the most important genre of all, for it shapes how most people understand things like AI, bioengineering en climate change. We certainly need good science, but from a political perspective, a good science-fiction movie is worth far more than an article in Science or Nature.

Does that mean scientists should start writing science fiction? That is actually not such a bad idea. Art plays a key role in shaping people’s views of the world, and in the twenty-first century science fiction is arguably the most important genre of all, for it shapes how most people understand things such as AI, bioengineering, and climate change. We certainly need good science, but from a political perspective, a good science-fiction movie is worth far more than an article in Science or Nature.

Well, if you believe in the romantic story, but you are not in love, you at least know what the aim of your life is: to find true love. You have seen it in countless movies and read about it in innumerable books. You know that one day you will meet that special someone, you will see infinity inside two sparkling eyes, your entire life will suddenly make sense, and all the questions you ever had will be answered by repeating one name over and over again, just like Tony in West Side Story or Romeo upon seeing Juliet looking down at him from the balcony.

In September 1941, a set of hearings was convened by a U.S. Senate Subcommittee on War Propaganda, chaired by Idaho Democrat Senator D. Worth Clark. The hearings were designed to address a resolution sponsored by two hard-nosed isolationist senators, Republican Gerald P. Nye of North Dakota and Democrat Bennett Champ Clark of Missouri, calling for “an investigation of any propaganda disseminated by motion pictures and radio or any other activity of the motion picture industry to influence public opinion in the direction of participation of the United States in the present European war.

Each of us has a sophisticated system that throws away most of our experiences, keeps only a few choice samples, mixes them up with bits from movies we saw, novels we read, speeches we heard, and from our own daydreams, and weaves out of all that jumble a seemingly coherent story about who I am, where I came from and where I am going. This story tells me what to love, whom to hate and what to do with myself. This story may even cause me to sacrifice my life, if that’s what the plot requires. We all have our genre. Some people live a tragedy, others inhabit a never-ending religious drama, some approach life as if it were an action film, and not a few act as if in a comedy. But in the end, they are all just stories.

It's that thing when you are with someone, and you love them and they know it and they love you, you know it. But it's a party, you're both talking to other people and you're laughing and shining ... You look across the room and catch each other's eyes... but-but not because you are possessive or it's precisely sexual .. but because .. that's your person in this life. And it's funny and sad, but only because this life will end, and it's this secret world that exists right there in public, unnoticed, that no one else knows about. It's sort of like how they say that other dimensions exist all around us, but we don't have the ability to perceive them. That's that's what I want out of a relationship. Or just life, I guess

It is so easy, from the outside, to put the blame on the woman and say, "You just need to leave." It's not like my home was the only home where there was domestic abuse. It's what I grew up around. I saw it in the streets of Soweto, on TV, in movies. Where does a woman go in a society where that is the norm? When the police won't help her? When her own family won't help her? Where does a woman go when she leaves one man who hits her and is just as likely to wind up with another man who hits her, maybe even worse than the first? Where does a woman go when she's single with three kids and she lives in a society that makes her a pariah for being a manless woman? Where she's seen as a whore for doing that? Where does she go? What does she do?

Can we walk for a bit?” he says. “Yes, that would be lovely.” But as I start getting up I lose my footing and slip and fall—right over the shingle. If I’d been doing a stunt in an action-adventure movie it would have probably looked spectacular but in the context of a romantic makeup it looks totally ridiculous. “Are you OK?” Noah calls over to me. I scramble up, my face red with embarrassment. “That was an awesome body roll. I wanna try.” Noah takes a step back before hurling himself over the shingle. He crashes into me and we land on the beach in a tangled heap. And as we laugh our heads off, the very last traces of tension between us disappear. “I’ve missed you so much, Inciting Incident,” he whispers. — Zoe Sugg (Girl Online (Girl Online, #1))

One day I saw that The Notebook was out on DVD so I bought it. I will fully admit to enjoying a good chick flick every now and again. I didn’t really think Brandi would stay home to watch with me, so I scooped up Colston in my lap and turned it on. I knew it was sad and I prepared myself for what I thought was the sad part. I had my wall up in front of my emotions and knew this movie wasn’t going to get me. So the sad part came and I didn’t tear up, and I think, I’ve beaten Nicholas Sparks in this battle, and I relaxed. Then out of nowhere the movie hit me with another sad part. I was not expecting that. I thought to myself, Oh no, I am going to ugly cry. I sat Colston down in his bouncy chair and walked out of the room. I thought he was too young to see his father crying.

We see, then, that the self too is an imaginary story, just like nations, gods and money. Each of us has a sophisticated system that throws away most of our experiences, keeps only a few choice samples, mixes them up with bits from movies we saw, novels we read, speeches we heard, and from our own daydreams, and weaves out of all that jumble a seemingly coherent story about who I am, where I came from and where I am going. This story tells me what to love, whom to hate and what to do with myself. This story may even cause me to sacrifice my life, if that’s what the plot requires. We all have our genre. Some people live a tragedy, others inhabit a never-ending religious drama, some approach life as if it were an action film, and not a few act as if in a comedy. But in the end, they are all just stories.

Mystic poets of all traditions have often conflated romantic love with cosmic union, writing about God as a lover. Romantic poets have repaid the compliment by writing about their lovers as gods. If you are really in love with someone, you never worry about the meaning of life. And what if you are not in love? Well, if you believe in the romantic story but you are not in love, you at least know what the aim of your life is: to find true love. You have seen it in countless movies and read about it in innumerable books. You know that one day you will meet that special someone, you will see infinity inside two sparkling eyes, your entire life will suddenly make sense, and all the questions you ever had will be answered by repeating one name over and over again, just like Tony in West Side Story or Romeo upon seeing Juliet looking down. at him from the balcony. (page 173)

Chapter 20 we will explore in far greater depth how to avoid brainwashing and how to distinguish reality from fiction. Here I would like to offer two simple rules of thumb. First, if you want reliable information, pay good money for it. If you get your news for free, you might well be the product. Suppose a shady billionaire offered you the following deal: “I will pay you $30 a month, and in exchange you will allow me to brainwash you for an hour every day, installing in your mind whichever political and commercial biases I want.” Would you take the deal? Few sane people would. So the shady billionaire offers a slightly different deal: “You will allow me to brainwash you for one hour every day, and in exchange, I will not charge you anything for this service.” Now the deal suddenly sounds tempting to hundreds of millions of people. Don’t follow their example. The second rule of thumb is that if some issue seems exceptionally important to you, make the effort to read the relevant scientific literature. And by scientific literature I mean peer-reviewed articles, books published by well-known academic publishers, and the writings of professors from reputable institutions. Science obviously has its limitations, and it has gotten many things wrong in the past. Nevertheless, the scientific community has been our most reliable source of knowledge for centuries. If you think the scientific community is wrong about something, that’s certainly possible, but at least know the scientific theories you are rejecting, and provide some empirical evidence to support your claim. Scientists, for their part, need to be far more engaged with current public debates. Scientists should not be afraid of making their voices heard when the debate wanders into their field of expertise, be it medicine or history. Of course, it is extremely important to go on doing academic research and to publish the results in scientific journals that only a few experts read. But it is equally important to communicate the latest scientific theories to the general public through popular science books, and even through the skillful use of art and fiction. Does that mean scientists should start writing science fiction? That is actually not such a bad idea. Art plays a key role in shaping people’s views of the world, and in the twenty-first century science fiction is arguably the most important genre of all, for it shapes how most people understand things such as AI, bioengineering, and climate change. We certainly need good science, but from a political perspective, a good science-fiction movie is worth far more than an article in Science or Nature.

More recently, mathematical script has given rise to an even more revolutionary writing system, a computerised binary script consisting of only two signs: 0 and 1. The words I am now typing on my keyboard are written within my computer by different combinations of 0 and 1. Writing was born as the maidservant of human consciousness, but is increasingly becoming its master. Our computers have trouble understanding how Homo sapiens talks, feels and dreams. So we are teaching Homo sapiens to talk, feel and dream in the language of numbers, which can be understood by computers. And this is not the end of the story. The field of artificial intelligence is seeking to create a new kind of intelligence based solely on the binary script of computers. Science-fiction movies such as The Matrix and The Terminator tell of a day when the binary script throws off the yoke of humanity. When humans try to regain control of the rebellious script, it responds by attempting to wipe out the human race.

In the climactic scene of many Hollywood science-fiction movies, humans face an alien invasion fleet, an army of rebellious robots or an all-knowing super-computer that wants to obliterate them. Humanity seems doomed. But at the very last moment, against all the odds, humanity triumphs thanks to something that the aliens, the robots and the super-computers didn’t suspect and cannot fathom: love. The hero, who up till now has been easily manipulated by the super-computer and has been riddled with bullets by the evil robots, is inspired by his sweetheart to make a completely unexpected move that turns the tables on the thunderstruck Matrix. Dataism finds such scenarios utterly ridiculous. ‘Come on,’ it admonishes the Hollywood screenwriters, ‘is that all you could come up with? Love? And not even some platonic cosmic love, but the carnal attraction between two mammals? Do you really think that an all-knowing super-computer or aliens who managed to conquer the entire galaxy would be dumbfounded by a hormonal rush?

The movie The Third Man takes place in Vienna immediately after the end of the Second World War. Reflecting on the recent conflict, the character Harry Lime says: ‘After all, it’s not that awful…In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.’ Lime gets almost all his facts wrong – Switzerland was probably the most bloodthirsty corner of early modern Europe (its main export was mercenary soldiers), and the cuckoo clock was actually invented by the Germans – but the facts are of lesser importance than Lime’s idea, namely that the experience of war pushes humankind to new achievements. War allows natural selection free rein at last. It exterminates the weak and rewards the fierce and the ambitious. War exposes the truth about life, and awakens the will for power, for glory and for conquest. Nietzsche summed it up by saying that war is ‘the school of life’ and that ‘what does not kill me makes me stronger’.

Once I got into college I didn’t think about joining up again. But on September 11, 2001, everything changed. Now my country was under attack. We might go to war and I needed to be a part of that. My country needed me. I just kept running until finally I stopped and realized I had run quite far from the house. And I was thirsty. I saw a gas station and headed that way. There were cars lined up all the way down the street to get gas. It looked like something out of a disaster movie. Everyone was freaking out. All of the people in the cars had the same terrified look on their faces. I walked into the gas station convenience store, grabbed a Gatorade, and got in line. And then when I got to the counter I said the stupidest thing I could have said. The cashier was a Middle Eastern man and I said to him, “Business is good today, isn’t it?” He glared at me like I was the rudest, nastiest person on the planet. He didn’t have to reply. His face said it all. Inside my head I was screaming, Why did you say that? I was so distraught over what I’d seen on the TV, about what was happening to my country, I think I had pulled up my imaginary shield and gone into emotional protection mode. It’s what I do when I am upset or uncomfortable.

In the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, in addition to the daily letter I also made sure to send her a Valentine’s card and a different bar of chocolate. I was buying really nice bars of chocolate, all different flavors and kinds. She was only allowed to eat them right there at mail call, and sometimes she would get several packages at once, so even though it was hard to do, she’d share bites of her chocolate with other people. I also made sure to give extra thought to the regular, daily letter that would arrive on Valentine’s Day: Jamie, In the beginning of our relationship I criticized your expectations in a boyfriend. I told you that you watched too many movies and lived in a fantasy world. In a way I was asking you to settle. Even through our arguments about what was realistic and what was a fairy tale, I did everything I could to be your prince in a world where I saw you as the princess that you are. I was wrong to ever question you. Your standards never dropped and it forced me to rise up to the level needed to keep you. Like a storybook romance, I’ve defended your honor, showered you with love, worshipped the ground you walk on, and will faithfully wait for you while you’re away. You have made me a better man. Because of you I live a life I am proud of and have become the father, brother, son, and friend my family deserves. Your love has positively affected every aspect of my life. And for that I could never repay you. But I will happily be forever yours, paying off my debt and love for years to come. Like your favorite movie, Beauty and the Beast, a tale as old as time, we are living proof that fantasy can be reality. Love always and forever, Noah I’d never been that outwardly romantic before. I’d never worn my feelings on my sleeve quite like I did with her.

One day, on the verge of dying of boredom, Uncle Johnny had had enough. He turned to me and said sternly, “Noah, I’m not gonna sit in here like we’re in an oversized coffin. We’re either opening the door or we’re turning the TV on. Which one do you want?” I rolled my eyes and grumbled for a few minutes before answering, “All right. Turn on the TV.” Without hesitation Uncle Johnny shot up out of that chair and reached up to hit the power button on the TV mounted from the ceiling. No sooner had his butt hit the chair seat than he was right back up again. “Fuck that. I am opening the door, too, because I want it open.” He vigorously emphasized his intention so I didn’t protest. He marched over and swung that door open. I swear he might have even taken a deep breath as if it were fresh mountain air. Then he came back to his chair and sat down. There was a movie on starring Matthew Broderick. I’d never heard of it before but Uncle Johnny was explaining to me that this was a remake and Gene Wilder had played Broderick’s character in the original film. In spite of myself, and my stubborn wish to sit and suffer in silence, I really liked the movie. And I remember thinking, I am really enjoying myself. I even turned to Uncle Johnny and said, “I’m glad we turned the TV on. This is great!” Uncle Johnny just smiled as if to say, “Of course! Finally!” We were right in the middle of the movie when one of my machines started to malfunction. The machine’s beeps drowned out the movie. A nurse came in to fix the problem and it just happened to be the hot nurse I had a crush on. She had short hair, a few tattoos on her arm, and she always wore a bandana over her head. The machine she was trying to fix was plugged in on the other side of the bed, up against the wall. “Oh, I see. Hold on. I have to move the bed out from the wall to fix this,” she said. At this point I was just watching her. She fixed the machine and pushed the bed back up against the wall. She actually hit the wall with the bed and zap! The TV went out! “WHAT?! NO!” I screamed. She couldn’t get it to turn back on. She tried but nothing worked. “Oh no, I’m sorry. We’ll have to get maintenance down here to fix it,” she said with an apologetic look that I met with a glare of disdain. She was no longer hot to me. She was just the nurse who broke the TV. Maintenance didn’t come to repair the TV until the next day. I didn’t get to watch the rest of the movie. In fact, I never saw the end of the movie and I didn’t even know the name of it until years later. Maybe one of these days I’ll get to see The Producers from start to finish.

THOUGH I WENT to a very artsy private high school in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I wasn’t raised by parents with a liberal attitude toward alcohol. There was no whimsical “sip of wine at Thanksgiving” for us kids while we were still teenagers, like we were in a Noah Baumbach movie. That was for the cool Jewish kids. This was the Clinton era, and my parents were already worried about the moral deterioration of the country. So I drank skim milk with dinner, and did so pretty much every night until I was a story editor at The Office.

As I started to feel more comfortable, I wanted to get to know these guys. I asked each of them to tell me his story. One of the guys cracked, “What’s with all the questions? Are you writing a book?” I said, “Who knows? I might write a book sometime and talk about all of this.” But for now I was curious. Some of them were super-intelligent, too smart for their own good. Others were as dumb as a box of rocks. In this way it did feel like a movie.

Writing was born as the maidservant of human consciousness, but it is increasingly becoming its master. Our computers have trouble understanding how Homo sapiens talks, feels and dreams. So we are teaching Homo sapiens to talk, feel and dream in the language of numbers, which can be understood by computers. And this is not the end of the story. The field of artificial intelligence is seeking to create a new kind of intelligence based solely on the binary script of computers. Science-fiction movies such as The Matrix and The Terminator tell of a day when the binary script throws off the yoke of humanity. When humans try to regain control of the rebellious script, it responds by attempting to wipe out the human race.

Mackayla had a flair for the dramatic, but I had never heard her talk about a boy this much. Apparently, their bedroom windows looked across to each other, like in that Taylor Swift music video. And apparently, before she knew this, Mackayla had accidentally looked into his bedroom and seen him taking off his shirt. Her description? Neighbor Boy had more abs than he did brain cells.

I used to watch American movies where cops would pull people over and say, “You didn’t signal” or “Your taillight’s out.” I’d always wonder, Why do American cops bother lying? One thing I appreciate about South Africa is that we have not yet refined the system to the point where we feel the need to lie. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” “Because you’re a policeman and I’m a black person?” “That’s correct. License and registration, please.

But I don’t want you to go,” Adam whined. “Yes, both me and my ass are very aware of that.” Adam cupped said ass. “I’m not letting you shower until you say it.” “Say what?” Noah asked, blinking up at him with mock innocence. “You know what.” Adam gave him the big, sad puppy dog eyes. “Please?” They were so contrived, yet they worked every fucking time. “Fine.” Noah flushed. It was such a stupid, embarrassingly sweet ritual they’d created. One that would make Noah cringe if he saw it in a book or movie. Hell, he would probably murder to keep it quiet because it was just too precious for two twenty-something-year-old killers. But Adam loved hearing it. And often. Noah didn’t know exactly why. Still, he sighed. “I maybe love you.” A wide grin spread across Adam’s face. “I maybe love you, too.” They were building a life together on that maybe. And it was a good one. More than Noah could ever have imagined.

There were many rough edges that need to be sanded down for that to happen—Ruth was a drinker and a womanizer for long periods of his life—so the film simply abandons all sense of realism and instead turns him into a saint who could heal the weak and, in the end, died so that others could live. No joke.

Richard Pryor is in it, too, as Charlie Snow, whose whole deal is that he’s learning Spanish so he can sneak into the pre–Jackie Robinson major leagues as a Cuban. It’s a funny bit, and he calls himself Carlos Nevada, which is a cool name.

If we do A, they’ll do B, which leads to C,” Rany Jazayerli told me. “That’s the essence of analytics. Intelligent decision-making based on the data, not just based on a set of inflexible rules.

Confronting your nostalgia is a key part of growing up, for people, for baseball, and, most especially, for baseball movies.

Pride of the Yankees invented the visual grammar of the baseball film, discovering and employing editing techniques to turn a movie star with little baseball experience into a reasonable facsimile of one of the most talented players of all time. In later years, these techniques were used to make actors as disparate as John Cusack (Eight Men Out), Rosie O’Donnell (A League of Their Own), and Bernie Mac (Mr. 3000) look like they’re zinging line drives all over the field.

Baseball is kinda like Hollywood that way. It’s been dying forever. It lost out to football a long time ago. Like Hollywood losing out to TV. The demise is always right around the corner. But it keeps reinventing itself and perpetuating itself, somehow, someway. Baseball is sort of a perpetual motion machine. It gets passed on from generation to generation. You take the baton and pass it to the next. Kinda beautiful that way. Movies and baseball.

Broadly put, religion in postwar America wasn’t so much about the divine. It was instead seen as a vital stitch in the fabric of society, a building block of the American Dream. Naturally, the baseball films of this era incorporated religious imagery and themes into their stories, both with the intent to please the religious masses and as a natural extension of their melding of baseball with patriotism. McCarthy, who despised the perceived immorality of Hollywood, surely appreciated baseball movies for their wholesome portrait of American exceptionalism. In cinema, baseball was America’s game, and America was good because it was godly.

Any institution that’s around for a century and a quarter will have to reinvent itself a few times to remain relevant. That’s the story of cinema and baseball. They’re not dying. They’re just in flux, as they always have been.

Look closely at the baseball film and you’ll see the American experience in microcosm; an institution grappling with its own values, wrestling its contradictions into a reasonable facsimile of what the Founding Fathers called “a more perfect union.

Whatever solace he sought was generally found in the tranquility of the 380-acre farm that he bought in Chester County, Pennsylvania in 1941.

They wrote the play, as Burnett later told a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, in “the white heat of anger—anger at stupid people who refused to acknowledge that Hitler and Nazism were a threat.

I know that somewhere under the sickening face of a shit—is a real shit.

Bogart’s a hell of a nice guy until around 11:30 pm,” former comedian and Hollywood restaurant owner Dave Chasen famously remarked. “After that, he thinks he’s Bogart.

She eschewed the conventional star makeover, refusing to pluck her eyebrows, wear thick makeup, or change her name, and she maintained a level of assertiveness quite uncommon to female actors of her generation.

its ink running down the page with each drop of rain, does the crying for a man not able to shed tears. Ilsa

its ink running down the page with each drop of rain, does the crying for a man not able to shed tears.

Then bullets finally took down Monica and Michael. One went through Michael’s stomach and he fell to the ground screaming. Another bullet pierced Monica’s lung. She lay there trying to talk, trying to breath, but nothing. She knew that she was going to die. Michael looked at her and crawled toward her, his guts dragging in the sand, scraping on rocks as he crawled. He made it over to Monica, cradled her in his arms. Her body twitched in his arms. It took everything he had but he spooned her like they were just going to sleep for the night. He put his arm around her and said into her ear, “Let’s watch a movie on Netflix,” and they both died.

I spent a lot of years wondering what it’d be like to do the things that dating couples do,” Ky began slowly, not meeting his eyes. He gave a small shrug. “Have a drink at a bar. See a movie at the movie theater. Hold my boyfriend’s hand in public.” Noah’s

If happiness is determined by expectations, then two pillars of our society – mass media and the advertising industry – may unwittingly be depleting the globe’s reservoirs of contentment. If you were an eighteen-year-old youth in a small village 5,000 years ago you’d probably think you were good-looking because there were only fifty other men in your village and most of them were either old, scarred and wrinkled, or still little kids. But if you are a teenager today you are a lot more likely to feel inadequate. Even if the other guys at school are an ugly lot, you don’t measure yourself against them but against the movie stars, athletes and supermodels you see all day on television, Facebook and giant billboards. So

Methuselah, being raised by a godly parent, Enoch (who walked with God and was translated to heaven without death), was surely righteous as well (Hebrews 11:53). His death surely preceded the Flood unlike what is portrayed in the unbiblical movie Noah with Russell Crowe and Darren Aronofsky. Some have suggested that Methuselah died immediately before the Flood and hence a seven-day mourning period was in order. This possibly makes sense of why Noah was given seven days until the Flood came (e.g., Genesis 7:44

that if one is intent on colorizing a film like Casablanca one may as well add arms to the Venus de Milo.

The aforementioned Teresa Wright shall not be required to pose for photographs in a bathing suit unless she is in the water. Neither may she be photographed running on the beach with her hair flying in the wind. Nor may she pose in any of the following situations: In shorts, playing with a cocker spaniel; digging in a garden; whipping up a meal; attired in firecrackers and holding skyrockets for the Fourth of July; looking insinuatingly at a turkey for Thanksgiving; wearing a bunny cap with long ears for Easter; twinkling on prop snow in a skiing outfit while a fan blows her scarf; assuming an athletic stance while pretending to hit something with a bow and arrow.

Mackayla sighed. “I’m probably not ready to be a grandmother.” “Probably not?” Mackayla turned her glare to me. “You know what I meant. Maybe I should just walk like this?” Mackayla crouched beside me, hobbling along in my shadow. “Not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever done,” she said. “Have you considered growing taller?” “Working on it.” “Not fast enough,” she said.

I glanced at him. “You have a hickey.” His eyes widened, and he covered his neck immediately. “What? I checked. I shouldn’t—” I snickered. Dylan sighed. “I come over here to see how you’re doing, and you’re up to your usual tricks.

However, I’m completely open to trades.” Jordyn snorted. “You can’t trade — ” “You can have this half-empty can of Coke,” Dylan said quickly. Jordyn rolled her eyes. “He’s not going to trade — ” “Done.” I held out my hand to collect my prize. “MY RESPECT IS WORTH MORE THAN A HALF-EMPTY CAN OF COKE!

Since my day as a movie star, I’d been gushing about Noah nonstop. I’d told the story of our almost kiss so many times that Mackayla knew the words by heart, mouthing them when I was speaking. It was burned into my memory like a childhood fairytale.

That's when it comes, the urge to shout in the church, the nursery, the crowded movie house. It's an itch at first. Inconsequential. But that itch is soon a torrent behind a straining damn. Noah's flood. That itch is my whole life. Here is comes now. Cover your ears. Build an ark. "Eat me!" I scream.

It was said so matter-of-factly that Noah found himself nodding before wildly shaking his head. "Wha-no, no way, I've read the plots of enough horror movies to know that's a terrible idea. You're not taking my soul." The demon's nose wrinkled. "Why would I want your soul, of all things? Probably tastes like lemons. I hate lemons.

The Bible was my action movie. Samson was my superhero. He was my He-Man. A guy beating a thousand people to death with the jawbone of a donkey? That’s pretty fierce.

At the entrance to Alex there’s the huge minibus rank and the bus station. It’s the same bustling, chaotic third-world marketplace you see in James Bond and Jason Bourne movies. It’s Grand Central Station but outdoors. Everything’s dynamic. Everything’s in motion. Nothing feels like it was there yesterday, and nothing feels like it will be there tomorrow, but every day it looks exactly the same.

You've seen, like, movies. Of kisses, right? Your lips need to be, like, wanting to be kissed." Blue touched her mouth. "What are they doing now?" "Like, bracing themselves." She pursed and unpursed her lips. She saw his point. "So imagine one of those," Noah suggested.

sometimes in big Hollywood movies they'll have these crazy chase scenes where somebody jumps or gets thrown from a moving car. The person hits the ground and rolls for a bit. Then they come to a stop and pop up and dust themselves off, like it was no big deal. Whenever I see that I think, That's rubbish. Getting thrown out of a moving car hurts way worse than that.

If happiness is determined by expectations, then two pillars of our society – mass media and the advertising industry – may unwittingly be depleting the globe’s reservoirs of contentment. If you were an eighteen-year-old youth in a small village 5,000 years ago you’d probably think you were good-looking because there were only fifty other men in your village and most of them were either old, scarred and wrinkled, or still little kids. But if you are a teenager today you are a lot more likely to feel inadequate. Even if the other guys at school are an ugly lot, you don’t measure yourself against them but against the movie stars, athletes and supermodels you see all day on television, Facebook and giant billboards. So maybe Third World discontent is fomented not merely by poverty, disease, corruption and political oppression but also by mere exposure to First World standards.

You know Beau and I were close as kids…” I decided to start there. It seemed like the best place. “Oh good God, you mean to tell me this has something to do with Beau? Beau Vincent?” I cringed and nodded without glancing over at her. “Yes, it has everything to do with Beau,” I whispered. Leann’s hand covered mine, and I took some comfort in the gesture. “This summer Beau and I started spending time together. You were with Noah or working, and Sawyer was gone. I thought it would be good to rekindle the friendship Beau and I once shared.” Leann squeezed my hands, and I continued to explain how we’d played pool at the bar where his mother worked, went swimming at the hole, watched a movie at my house, and then I paused, knowing what I told her next was going to be hard for her to comprehend. After all, I was the good girl. “That night in the back of his truck, Beau and I…we”--I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut--“had sex.” Leann let go of my hands and slipped her arm around my shoulders instead. “Wow” was her only response. “I know. It wasn’t the only time either and…and although I know it won’t happen again…I think…I think I love him. Maybe I always have. No. I know I always have. When I’m with Beau, I feel things I’ve never felt with Sawyer. I can be me. There’s no pretending. Beau knows my worst flaws.” “The heart wants who the heart wants. We can’t help that,” Leann said. I sighed and finally lifted my eyes to meet hers. The unshed tears blurred my vision. “But I’ve ruined his life. All he ever had was Sawyer. Make no mistake, I went after Beau. I can look back and see it now. This is all my fault. I should have never come between them.” I sniffled and buried my head in her shoulder. “Beau could have said no. He knew he was destroying his relationship with Sawyer every moment he spent with you. Don’t you take all the blame for this.” The stern tone in Leann’s voice only caused me to cry harder. Beau needed Sawyer. He might not have realized it, but he did. Somehow I had to make it right. “How do I fix this? How do I help Beau get Sawyer back?” “You can’t fix this for them. Beau knew what he was doing, Ash. He chose you over Sawyer. Now that you’ve let Sawyer go, are you going to choose Beau?” I wiped the tears from my cheeks and peered over at her. “Choosing Beau will cause everyone in Grove to hate him. They’ll all see him as the guy who took Sawyer’s girl away. I can’t do that to him.” Leann shrugged. “I don’t think Beau cares about everyone else. He made that apparent when he decided sneaking around with his cousin’s girl was what he wanted to do. He has to love you, Ash. Never in this lifetime would I have thought Beau would do anything to hurt Sawyer. He loves him. So that can only mean he loves you more.” She reached over to pay my shoulder. “Question is: Do you love him as fiercely? Are you willing to snub your nose at your family and the people in town in order to have him?

It is so easy, from the outside, to put the blame on the woman and say, “You just need to leave.” It’s not like my home was the only home where there was domestic abuse. It’s what I grew up around. I saw it in the streets of Soweto, on TV, in movies. Where does a woman go in a society where that is the norm? When the police won’t help her? When her own family won’t help her? Where does a woman go when she leaves one man who hits her and is just as likely to wind up with another man who hits her, maybe even worse than the first? Where does a woman go when she’s single with three kids and she lives in a society that makes her a pariah for being a manless woman? Where she’s seen as a whore for doing that? Where does she go? What does she do?

Anyone who'd ever seen any movie set in a high school knew how to spot a bully a mile away and Noah fit the part to a tee. Tall and handsome, he might have been charming if he had any sense of humility or dignity. As it was, he was petty and crass, his sense of humor having peaked at pranks and poop jokes.

Welcome to the Blackcastle Book Club’s official group chat!” “Seriously? You put a picture from The Land Before Time as the group’s profile picture?” “Why not? It’s a good movie.” “Dude, that’s so wrong. It’s a children’s film, and we’re reading about dinosaurs boning.” “It’s a good thing we’re not making them read the books, isn’t it? But fine, I see your point. I wanted to keep it a surprise, but since you insist on policing my admin decisions, I’ve changed the picture to the cover of this month’s book club pick. Gentlemen, prepare yourselves for **drumroll please** Shagging the Spinosaurus!” “We already guessed that was the book of the month. We saw you reading it the other day Aren’t you supposed to read it with the rest of the club? Why are you reading it early?” “Yeah, that’s CHEATING.” “It’s called vetting. Also, I’m the admin. I can do what I want.” “I tried looking for it at the bookstore yesterday and couldn’t find it. Donovan, what was the name of the store you went to?” “Uh… I don’t remember. Just some shop I stumbled on in the city. I’m sure you can buy the book online.” “I don’t understand. How do you shag a spinosaurus?” “The same way you shag a triceratops and a T-rex, genius.” “Oh, you sound so bloody confident. Are you speaking from experience?” “Gentlemen, let’s get back on track! This is a book club, not a fight club. Our first official meeting is on Wednesday. I want everyone to come prepared with at least one discussion question.” “Dibs on the ‘how do you shag a spinosaurus’ question.” “You can’t ask that. It has to be a THOUGHTFUL question.” “How thoughtful do you want us to be? We’re literally reading about dinosaurs fucking.” “And humans If you forget them, that’s human erasure.” “Fuck off, Donovan.” “Spoken like someone who doesn’t have the IQ to come up with a good question.” “Yeah? Let’s wait until Wednesday and see. I bet my question will be better than yours.” “You’re on. May the better questioner win.” “Okayyy. Moving on. Noah, since you refuse to participate in the LITERARY side of our club, you’re in charge of snacks.” “Fine.” “I’m thinking we could do a themed event with dinosaur crackers. Do you think they make custom spinosaurus ones?” “So we’re going to eat the little dude while we read about him getting it on? That’s so wrong.” “Poor Spiny. He deserves better.” “It was an IDEA. I don’t see you guys coming up with anything better.” “How about jungle juice to stay with the dinosaur theme?” “Dinosaurs didn’t live in the jungle.” “How do you know? Were you there?” “Lol.” “Don’t talk to your captain like that.” “You’re our football captain. You’re not the president of this book club. Also, I just looked it up and they did live in jungles, so you’re wrong.” “Wait, we have a president?” “Yes, it’s me. Anyway Noah, can you call the dinosaur cracker company and ask them for custom spinosaurus snacks? Hello? Noah?” Noah Wilson left the conversation.