In the process of being horrified by a song I previously thought to be infallible, I realized something important about the Motown sound: Everyone loves it. That means every no-talent bucket of contagious hate has to produce a rendition of a classic Motown song. As a result, the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay have an inexorable soundtrack for their stay.
Here are the five worst covers of “The Tracks of My Tears.” Proceed with caution.
The Shore, an Irish nominee that I reviewed yesterday, dealt with two friends who hadn't seen each other in 25 years; Hallvar Witzø's Tuba Atlantic, its Norwegian competitor, is about a dying man who hasn't spoken to his brother in 30, so I think we all know which is going to take home the statue. Actually these two are about evenly matched as my favorite entries, each following a small number of lively characters through a simple story arc in about 25 minutes. The protagonist of Tuba Atlantic is a solitary old man living by the seashore (Edvard Hægstad) who learns he has six days to live; in order to die at home he requires a caretaker, and one arrives in the form of a goofy teenage Christian (Ingrid Viken) blithely calling herself his "angel of death." The ensuing comedy mostly derives from the fact that the old codger deals out plenty of death himself, blowing up fish with dynamite, shooting pesky gulls with a machine gun, even stomping on their eggs in "pre-emptive strikes." The title motif—a giant wind horn the man has constructed to communicate with his brother across the ocean—didn't do much for me, but the relationship between the man and the girl follows in the finest traditions of Scandinavian deadpan. A trailer follows the jump.
OK, now think about GeoCities circa 1995.

This is according to an opinion piece in Sunday's New York Times, "Facebook Is Using You," by Lori Andrews, a bioethicist, novelist, professor at Chicago-Kent College of Law, and one of 29 fascinating Chicagoans profiled in our inaugural People Issue late last year.
Andrews, who in the People Issue likened her past work to "the cleanup person, like in Pulp Fiction," was once tasked with swooping in (tuxedo-clad, no doubt) to assist "scientists [who] have done some humongo thing, and either the White House or the scientists themselves will call me and say, 'Oh my goodness, did we violate any laws?'"
Now she wants to come to our rescue—in part because we've become the largely apathetic prey of data miners and privacy plunderers, among them the big, bad (or at least big, opportunistic) Facebook.