Stevie Nicks, the Fairy Godmother of Rock

Look to the shawls; let them show you the way. All night you’ve been ­anticipating their arrival on the Fleetwood Mac stage: the witchy moment when Stevie Nicks, that blonde chanteuse, abruptly dis­appears from view and, with a simple costume change she’s perfected over 35 years, reemerges a woman transformed, wrapped in fringed silk signaling a visitation by Rhiannon or Gold Dust Woman or the livid spurned lover of “Stand Back,” fine fabric unfurling from her delicate shoulders like the banner of an advancing army, heralding not just a song but the coming of an event. There may also be a wind machine, or perhaps you’re just imagining it. This was all to be expected, and somehow it still thrills. Twirling in the outstretched arms of Stevie Nicks, those shawls have magic in them.

Charlotte Rampling, Oscars Lightning Rod, Talks Loss and Survival

No one would have faulted Charlotte Rampling for not showing up today. It is mid-morning on December 1, and the art-house legend, who has just turned 70, has flown to New York from Paris, where her adopted hometown was still reeling from a horrific terrorist attack, and where just two months earlier her partner of 18 years, French media tycoon Jean-Noël Tassez, had died. She is stationed at a banquette in the Soho Grand Hotel, receiving a parade of reporters, who’ve come to talk to her about her long career and her performance in Andrew Haigh’s 45 Years as a woman who discovers on her 45th wedding anniversary that she perhaps doesn’t know her husband at all. “Of course I was affected,” says British-born Rampling of the Paris attacks. “Who wouldn’t be? What affected me more was the death of my husband before. So there have been a lot of deaths just around in the last month.” She stares at the table and plays with some small jars of marmalade.

The Broad City Hustle: Ilana Glazer and Abbi Jacobson’s Plan for World Domination

There is a certain vision of New York City as a playground of potential that exists only when you arrive, in your early 20s, from someplace smaller, be it Long Island or Main Line Philadelphia or Missoula, full of vim and self-delusion and a youthful inability to differentiate between the two. Every day is a hustle, an adventure, fast derailed by the sheer, comic difficulty of actually living here. And yet you forge through the dog shit and broke-ass-ness and graceless encounters with hookups past, fueled by optimism and perhaps an unusually ingenious best friend, until … something like victory. Which, by this point, could be just making it to your subway stop. Comediennes Abbi Jacobson and Ilana Glazer have a name for this. They call it Broad City.

Benedict and the Cumberbitches: What Fame Looks Like From Inside a Meme

The ones nearest the front have been camped out for hours, bodies wedged against barricades—a scrum of people ten rows deep, jockeying for position, climbing lampposts for better views, and rendering blocks of King Street, Toronto’s main downtown drag, impassable. “Denzel must be coming,” a middle-aged male passerby surmises, since this is a Toronto International Film Festival premiere. But no, it’s Benedict Cumberbatch, a movie star without a hit movie to his name and a made-for-meme, extreme-Brit sex symbol who plays his most notable roles (Sherlock Holmes, Julian Assange, Star Trek Into Darkness’s Khan) with a powerful whiff of sexlessness.
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