Films, plays, exhibitions.

Lately, I've been going back to the theater.

Yeah, I don't know what's gotten into me! Probably the onset of depression.

I returned to Squat 59 Rivoli by chance.

Before, I used to joke that only my mom read this blog.

Recently, I got proof that not even she does.

At the Franciscaines to work. I see there's an immersive installation starting in 5 minutes.

I've decided not to renew my subscription to the New York Times and New Yorker to see how it feels. Not to get stuck in my reading habits and discover new avenues.

I'm keeping the English title because the French translation - as is often the case with self-help books - seems to have been written by the traveling quack who sells mercury potions in Little Hous

Going to see the plays of my actor buddies when I was in acting school disgusted me with broke theater, or even theater altogether.

As is often the case, I bought this book by chance because I opened it in the middle and one sentence caught my eye.

Of course, you've known about this song for ages. Because you guys are cool.

To get away from Six Feet Under, The Wire, Mad Men, or The West Wing for a bit, there's a series I had stumbled upon that blew my mind. I watched it again this week and it transported me again.

I burst out laughing at this clip from the Netflix documentary The Mask by Olivier Bouchara and Jérôme Pierrat about the Gilbert Chikli phone sc

I stopped watching the first episode of Wednesday half way through. (I tried to go to the end, I promise, I even stopped then resumed it).

Excerpts from films I've written and directed:

When in Marrakech, I found myself at an exhibition called A Moroccan Winter, showing paintings by Majorelle and his contemporar