Sunday Morning Film: Harold Ross And The Making Of The New Yorker

I started searching for a good Saturday evening film 6 hours ago, when it was still Saturday. By the time I settled on one, it was Sunday morning.

As it happens, I’m reading Harold Ross’ letters, which has become a cherished book I carry everywhere, and recently left in my sister’s car. He was extremely funny, and almost unbelievably generous to his brood. (Not with money, but with attention.)

I’m very nostalgic about this concept of an editor: An extinct creature who was swept away by the tides of self publishing over the last couple of decades—leaving writers orphaned.

No writers were more blessed than his, I think it’s fair to say. Largely broke, certainly desperate, they were closer to manual laborers than swans.

The magazine was almost put down in its infancy, but they decided to give it just one more try.

“We hate bunk,” was its early motto.

Today it’s no good anymore. Takes itself way too seriously, and has lost its bunk-meter, and eccentricity, in favor of a chilling conformity. I think he would be aghast.