From Popeye to Aladdin to his last movies in Night at the Museum franchise, Robin Williams is remembered through his loveable movie characters and in life.
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Rolling Stone Meat Loaf Remembers Jim Steinman: ‘He Was the Centerpiece of My Life’
In an emotional, two-day interview, Meat Loaf looks back at the ups and downs of his five-decade saga with the writer of his biggest hits. “We belonged heart and soul to each other,” he says. “We didn’t
know each other. We Michael Putland/Getty Images
Jim Steinman was such a titanic figure in Meat Loaf’s life, that sharing their saga in a single phone call to Rolling Stone after Steinman’s death simply was not possible. It took two long calls across two days to get it across, and at the end of the first one, Meat Loaf broke down and sobbed uncontrollably over the loss of his friend. “Oh my God!” he moaned. “I haven’t cried until now. It just hit me. Oh my God! It’s horrible!”
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Yes, the opening does remind us of Bergman: The static shots, held for a moment s contemplation, of the rooms and possessions of a family. But then people enter the rooms, and their lives and voices have a particularly American animation; Woody Allen is right to say that his drama, Interiors , belongs more in the tradition of Eugene O Neill than of Ingmar Bergman. But what s this? Here we have a Woody Allen film, and we re talking about O Neill and Bergman and traditions and influences? Yes, and correctly. Allen, whose comedies have been among the cheerful tonics of recent years, is astonishingly assured in his first drama.
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The first time I entered Yonah Schimmel’s Knish Bakery on Houston Street, I was greeted, across from the signs selling cherry-flavored cream cheese knishes and egg creams, by the poster for Joan Micklin Silver’s
Hester Street (1975). I’d just moved from Los Angeles to New York City, unsure of where to go or what to do for paid work, and was spending a lot of hours milling about the Lower East Side, browsing bookshops. On the walls of Yonah Schimmel’s I would pore over the strips of yellowed newspaper clippings, which told stories of the local Yiddish theater players who’d come there in the ’20s to unwind over a knish after a night of performances, and who would stay talking into the next morning. When I finally sat down with a black-and-white egg cream, I made sure to face that