But what of this war—and why? Froggy, leader of the local street gang El Monte Flores turned footsoldier for de la Fe, is posed the same question by his peers; he answers by calling it “a war for volition and against the commodification of sadness”; whereas de la Fe himself explains, “it is a war against the fate that has been decided for us.” Fucking epic, right?

And the ostentatious grandness of Federico de la Fe’s statement of purpose is mirrored in his creator’s own audacity, as Plascencia quite transparently believes his novel to be a paradigm-shifting one. For my part, I see no good in being cynical about the pretense undergirding Plascencia’s claim here. In a previous era, the ingenious American critic Alfred Chester implored of artists,

Teach us, O Artists, not to settle for guilts and anxieties, for twitches and  embarrassments! Teach us…to feel again! Because emotions are the only thing  that artists have to say—and emotion will make us gigantic and tragic.

If, hastily described, People of Paper might seem cold and theoretical—or else too fantastic—let me try and redeem it (and myself) here by affirming that its voice is rich with sincerity and human passion, and that its work is of the saving sort.

Part memoir, part devastating lyrical elegy, Just Kids (2010) is Patti Smith’s fulfillment of her promise to Robert Mapplethorpe, who, dying of AIDS in 1989, asked his friend to write the story of their lives together. But just as Smith has here given us a kind of memoir, so too has she created something far grander for its literary ambition—and, indeed, for its merit: a text at turns elusive, musical, and deeply affecting, and which bears indelibly the structure and arc of tragedy. Joan Didion calls the book “so honest and pure as to count as a true rapture.” Her praise is as justified as it is gilded: Just Kids is a fucking masterpiece. And with her invocation of that word of words—rapture—Didion scores a direct hit on the dual character of Smith’s project—viz., her nearly seamless coupling of memory and myth—and the myriad of powerful affective responses she is able to evoke. Just Kids is, to be sure, an elegy for Robert Mapplethorpe before all else, and yet it is clear that Smith is mourning more than just her friend here. Through the book’s many torrents of nostalgia, which blur the edges of its world and at times can levitate it to a plane of oneiric rapture, it becomes clear that she loved the time and place at least as much as the man. This is a book unshy about positing human innocence; it is a record of so many beautiful things no longer of this earth. (In other words, a poem.) And at its very center: the open question of rapture and what comes after.  – Benjamin Ladner

Greg Garcia’s first foray into poor, white American life, NBC’s My Name Is Earl, never quite broke free of the stereotypes it mocked, maybe because Earl’s mystical list said little about the human potential of those around him. Fox’s Raising Hope, Garcia’s second go, corrects Earl’s missteps by incarnating magic in the form of a baby, the universal lovable object. This baby is foisted on her 23-year-old father, Jimmy, when her mother is executed, and Jimmy, with the help of his working-poor parents and senile great-grandmother Maw Maw, must raise Hope. Instilling hope is the nominal goal of the show. Such a cheesy goal is counterbalanced by the hard, hilarious realities of American poverty. When Hope gets sick, Jimmy calls the doctor to set up an appointment, and asks his parents, “What type of insurance do we have?” They look at one another and burst out laughing. His mother: “We don’t have that.” When the doctor’s office hangs up on Jimmy, his father chimes in, “Insurance! Sure, I’ll just have the butler go get it out of the hot air balloon!” Harsh, yes, but true, and motivated by love. Fostering hope (and humor) is still possible in the face of poverty—even if only with a baby around to remind everyone that life must go on.  – Kevin Hilke

No one believes that this is my favorite movie, but not because I am male. This can’t be anybody’s favorite movie—it’s an airy romantic comedy, one of the latest in a menagerie of ’90s Clueless rip-offs, right? I mean come on, there’s a “what-happens-to-the-characters-after-graduation” dénouement with everyone slo-mo flinging their caps up in triumph. Plus, the sequels and musical spin-off are terrible! All of this is true, like what Elle’s father says to dissuade her from applying to Harvard: “Law school is for people who are boring, and ugly…and serious.” Let those negative critics of Legally Blonde influence you the way daddy’s appeal affects our heroine. Reese Witherspoon’s character, Elle Woods, applies to HLS for just as crappy a reason as anyone (her boyfriend goes there). Over the semester, however, she performs an ahead-of-its-time critique of legal academia and the hollow paternalism of traditional white-shoe firms. Her stylized femininity supports lots of gags and one-liners, but Elle isn’t taking pot-shots at the glass ceiling. She maintains fierce individuality in the face of conformist pressures and holds a competitive advantage not because of her measurements but because of her work ethic, sincerity and loyalty. Ever the populist, she forsakes the Ivory Tower for the nail salon, winning the case. Give your mind a pedicure with a more thoughtful viewing of this cutely badass movie (often on TBS, but they take out the swears!).  – Adam Schaefer

With the release of Sid and Nancy in 1986, filmmaker Alex Cox was the toast of the indie film community. So he decided to take $6 million from Universal and make the most bizarre biopic ever: Walker, an acid western starring Ed Harris as William Walker, an American filibuster who colonialized and ruled Nicaragua for two years in the 1850s. Like most Cox films, it’s stylistically brash, changing tones with little notice, often within the same scene. But what sets Walker apart is its complete disinterest in hewing to the typical biopic formula. The plot is a clear analog for the U.S.-backed Contra wars of the 1980s—Walker enters the country with support from American oligarch Cornelius Vanderbilt (or “the Commodore,” as he insists on being called) and advances American interests in the Central American nation with no regard for the citizens. Cox realizes this connection and does nothing to obscure it. In addition to the plot parallels, he injects obvious anachronisms like helicopters, contemporary automobiles, and magazines such as Time and Newsweek with Walker on the covers. This isn’t subtle political commentary, but that’s the whole point: the goal here is to mimic the absurdity of unnecessary American intervention in foreign countries and the single-minded drive and arrogance that fuel it. Walker is a hallucinatory viewing experience because American politics feels that way, too.  – Eric Freeman