Noah Berlatsky

Scientists are hotly debating whether we should send messages into space. Perhaps they should consult Octavia Butler for some wisdom...

With the prospect of another Bush/Clinton presidential contest looming as ominously as Donald Trump's hairpiece, the word "dynasty" seems to be frothing off of many a pundit's keyboard. "Clinton, Bush struggle to shed dynasty labels," a Washington Post headline declared.

Conservative fetishization of the past is myopic, simplistic, and mean-spirited—but progressives can be too quick to cede tradition.

Some love stories don't end happily. So why do so many romance novels insist they do?

Genre boundaries are conscious of race—and, in the case of rock, conscious of gender too.

To understand this debate, it's important to consider historical context.

Action movies don't usually bother much with romance. The trailer for The Transporter: Refueled certainly doesn't. The hero is cool — sexy women, plural, throw themselves at him, or at least stand near him and things blow up; there are fights and revenge and high production values. Romance is, at best, a secondary concern.

C.S. Lewis' classic book presents an unlikely challenge to the patriarchy in the form of its true hero, Lucy.

Metal aggression isn't sexual, but existential. As a result, women in the genre are both rare and unexpectedly equal.

Under the guise of philanthropy, 8 Minutes essentially blackmails some of the most marginalized and powerless people in society.