Hamlet 2, director Andrew Fleming's hilariously quirky and unpredictable film stars Steve Coogan as Dana Marschz — a failed actor who decides to try his luck as a high school drama teacher, "where dreams go to die," in Tucson, Ariz. His drama department consists of only two students, who put on dismal adaptations of Hollywood hits such as Erin Brockovich that are largely ignored. He is harassed by everyone from a lisping ninth grader who writes scathing reviews of his plays in the school newspaper, a tyrannical principal who sees no value in the arts, and his wife, Brie (Catherine Keener) who is more than a little bitter about their low income and Dana's low sperm count.

The Dark Knight descended on the box office this past weekend breaking records by amassing more than $155 million and doing more than its fair share to reinvigorate a decidedly mediocre offering of summer movies. Director Christopher Nolan created a more than worthy sequel to Batman Begins, continuing the saga of Batman, the reluctant tragic hero. Evil never looked so glamorous in large part due to a hauntingly beautiful Chicago, luminescent and eerie, ably appropriating the crime besieged Gotham City.

What is art? It's a seemingly innocent question that doesn’t offer an immediate response. While few could debate the pastel enchantment of a Monet, the brooding introspection of a Hopper, or even the cultural relevance of a Warhol — abstract art has always been a less defined arena. Does art have to relate a cohesive narrative? Does the scene have to clearly depict people and places or can there be lines, patterns, non-discernible images or even scribbles? Can it be labeled art if a child is capable of its creation?

When I was 18, I brought my first real boyfriend home from Champaign for Easter weekend. I was thrilled — my parents a little less so. After I had gotten "D" settled on our pull-out couch downstairs, I came upstairs — and my father swiftly locked the door behind me. I protested vehemently, but my dad insisted that "D" had a bathroom, a refrigerator and anything else he needed downstairs (i.e. away from his daughter's room). It didn't seem prudent to remind my father that I had a single dorm room, so I set my alarm for 6 a.m. with full intention to open the basement door so "D" wouldn't feel like he was trapped in a bad horror flick.

I am always a little skeptical of the self-help genre. I don’t say this from a place of smugness (trust me — I’m not above receiving help) but just from the sheer fact that it is hard to completely legitimize a section that also houses titles such as Why Men Love Bitches and has book covers plastered with Dr. Phil leering at you in the aisle. Nevertheless, there has been considerable press about the wonder of the book, A New Earth, so I decided to plunge forward.

As a devoted fan of Sex and the City, I eagerly awaited the release of a feature length film. I have seen every episode more than once and my friends and I felt a certain affinity to Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. And even though we are middle class thirty-somethings and are more Payless than Prada, there is still a common bond between us.

What though, could we possibly have in common with a group of moneyed Manhattanites?

Therein lies the secret of Sex and the City.

What do you do when the life you had planned falls to pieces? What do you do when the life you had always wanted — a spouse, a child, a home, a successful career — isn’t what you really wanted after all? How do you reconcile the life you have now? How do you begin again?

After a devastating divorce and a crippling depression, Elizabeth Gilbert decides to parlay a writing assignment into a year-long odyssey to re-examine her life. She decides to spend four months in Italy where she will “eat” and examine the Italian propensity towards pleasure, another four months in India where she will “pray” and delve into the spiritual aspect of her nature, and the remaining four months in Bali, where she will find the courage to “love” again and find a balance between the two extremes of pleasure and penance.

The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini’s debut novel, has generated a near frenzy of international acclaim. It spawned a critically acclaimed movie and continues to dominate best-seller lists, five years after its release. So initially, it was with great hesitation and a near sense of trepidation that I approached his second novel, A Thousand Splendid Suns. The Kite Runner dazzled with its lyrical, haunting prose that captured the evolution of friendship between two boys in the changing face of Afghanistan. Could its successor, with women, as central characters no less, even come close to capturing its brilliance? Happily, I say a resounding “yes.”