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Naomi Fry

Naomi Fry

Staff Writer at The New Yorker

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United States
Covering topics
  • Entertainment
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  • English
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Media Database
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Naomi Fry
newyorker.com

On the “Industry” Season Finale, Father Knows Best

The HBO show—the most thrilling offering currently on TV—zeroes in on the domineering masculine impulse that drives the world of finance.
newyorker.com

The Mormon TikTok Moms Are All of Us

The women of “The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives” seem desperate to achieve a perfect blend of contemporary womanhood: strong and soft, a loving mother and a boss bitch, a hot influencer who always puts God first.
newyorker.com

The Mute Spectacle of Bianca Censori

Kanye West’s wife and muse has become known for going out in very—very—little clothing. What does her nudity reveal, and what does it hide?
newyorker.com

Teen-Age Alienation, on Display

In the nineteen-eighties, Andrea Modica took photos of the students at her Catholic alma mater. “I recognized something there that I had to deal with about my time in high school—something both horrible and wonderful,” she said.
newyorker.com

The Surreal Simulations of a Reality-TV Restaurant Empire

As is often the case these days, the business owed its success to reality television. In 2010, Vanderpump was cast on the Bravo reality show “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills,” where her plummy British accent and sharp humor made her something of a queen bee. (SUR, in addition to Villa Blanca, a “Mediterranean inspired” restaurant in Beverly Hills that Vanderpump opened with Todd in 2009, was sometimes featured on the show.) Fortunately for viewers, Vanderpump’s hauteur didn’t stop her from…
newyorker.com

Stormy Daniels’s American Dream

Daniels, whose legal name is Stephanie Clifford, is a blunt and gregarious blonde, who has famously dubbed her triple-D silicon breasts “Thunder” and “Lightning.” She has alleged that, during a 2006 celebrity golf tournament in Lake Tahoe, she met the future President, had less-than-mediocre sex with him, and, a decade later, in the lead-up to the 2016 Presidential election, was paid a hundred and thirty thousand dollars to keep quiet about it. Michael Cohen, Trump’s lawyer and fixer at the time…
newyorker.com

In Justine Kurland’s Photographs, a Mother and Son Hit the Road

In Justine Kurland’s “This Train,” a work of photography collected in a handsome edition by MACK, we arrive at the fact of violence obliquely. The suite of photographs, which Kurland made during months living on the road between 2005 and 2011, is split into two parallel bodies of work. In one, we encounter Kurland and her young son, Casper, as they traverse the U.S., mostly the West, in a van, stopping along the way in campsites and motels, forest clearings and desert brushland, gas stations and…

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newyorker.com

Culling the Kim’s Video Mother Lode

The tapes are part of the collection of Kim’s Video, the legendary movie-rental store. From the late nineteen-eighties—long before truffle popcorn or pickleball—to 2009, Kim’s offered New York film buffs a catalogue of rare titles. That year, Youngman Kim closed the store’s main location, on St. Marks, and more than fifty thousand tapes and DVDs were hastily packed and sent to Sicily, where the mayor of Salemi, a small town with Marfa-esque cultural aspirations, agreed to house them, on Kim’s co…
newyorker.com

Ethan Coen and Tricia Cooke’s Queer Caper

“Ethan thinks I’m like Jamie,” Cooke said on a Zoom call the other day, from a wooden-raftered Airbnb in Albuquerque, where the couple are shooting another movie. “I’m a glass-half-full person. Ethan can kind of spiral into—” “I’m like Marian,” Coen interjected. He had a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard and wore black-rimmed glasses. “I’m the worrier.” He sighed. “Sometimes I get infuriated with Trish for not worrying!” “I admit I can be a little cavalier,” Cooke conceded. She had on black-ri…
newyorker.com

Donald Trump’s Chaos, Straight to Your In-Box

Indeed, the e-mails arrive so frequently that it’s easy to grow numb to how bonkers they are. Alternating among alarming warnings, vaudevillian cracks, craven flattery, folksy insults, erratic typography and punctuation, and, of course, impassioned pleas for donations, all presented in a graphic-design language seemingly generated by MS Paint, they make for a rollicking and often frightening joyride. On February 2nd, for instance, Trump supporters around the world received an e-mail with the sub…
newyorker.com

June Squibb: Film Actor by Her Sixties, Leading Woman by Her Nineties

In sporty black sneakers, with her hair in a bob, Squibb radiated cheerful capability. She grew up in a small town in Illinois, the daughter of an insurance salesman and a piano teacher. She knew early on that she wanted to be in show business—“since I came out of the womb,” she said. At nineteen, she joined the Cleveland Play House to perform in musicals. “A lot of people came out of there, like Dom,” she said, gesturing at an Al Hirschfeld caricature of the late Dom DeLuise, her good friend, w…