By Maria Bregman I was reading about Michael Dell this morning. You know, the computer guy. The man whose beige boxes sat on every office…
By Maria Bregman, writer and art critic I was looking at the auction results from Versailles this weekend, and I had to wipe my glasses.…
By Maria Bregman, writer, literary and art critic Mads Mikkelsen is sixty. I had to read that twice when the press release landed on my…
By Maria Bregman, writer, literary and art critic So, it’s finally done. Or at least, the handshake has happened. On Saturday, while most of us…
By Maria Bregman, writer, literary and art critic I was sitting in a coffee shop in Shoreditch the other day, listening to two screenwriters panic.…
By Maria Bregman, writer, literary and art critic Fifty-four point seven million dollars. It’s a number that doesn’t really make sense, does it? It’s too…
By Maria Bregman, writer, literary and art critic I stuck Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men on the TV the other night. I haven’t seen it in years.…
By Maria Bregman The Oscar conversation has started. The lists are out. The long, slow, slightly undignified parade of speculation and prediction that takes us…
By Maria Bregman So, the Telegraph sale has collapsed. Again. You read the news, and you can’t help but feel a sense of grim, weary…
By Maria Bregman You hear the news, and you see the headlines, and they all say the same thing. One of the founders of Moscow…