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Taliban fighters pose with weapons on 19 August. The leadership has posted a statement online saying they pose no threat to other countries. Photograph: Reuters
The Coen brothers' new movie, "A Serious Man," opens with a piece of advice from medieval French rabbi Rashi: "Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you."
Fast forward to the film's long-suffering hero, physics professor Larry Gopnik, who would really like to heed those words, but after entering a world of pain and enduring a series of misfortunes that would put Job to shame, Larry needs answers, not proverbs. What did he do to deserve all this? And why does he seem so suddenly alone in a cruel, cruel world?
The Coens' 14th feature certainly has more than its share of autobiographical elements. Joel, 54, and Ethan, 52, were raised in an academic Jewish family in the same Minneapolis suburb where they shot "A Serious Man." The film is set in 1967, a time when Joel and Ethan were in the thick of their Hebrew school education -- which they hated, much like Larry's son who, like the Coens, would rather watch "F-Troop."
"I'm sure they're all wondering: 'Is that all you could think of?' " Ethan Coen says, musing on what their former teachers might make of "A Serious Man."
Richard Kind, the actor playing Larry's mad-genius brother, believes the movie's pitch-black fatalism reflects the brothers' worldview, which prompts the following measured response:
Joel: "That's just what we told Richard."
Ethan: "As a world view -- " and here he pauses, agonizing over the slightest prospect of revelation, "yyyyyyyeaaaaaah. It's an interesting story."
Joel: "I think I even remember saying to Richard, 'Look. This is how I view the world. So don't mess this up.' "
When it comes to the intersection of the Coens' lives and work, they offer their own advice, which to them is every bit as important as anything Rashi might have said. It's found midway through "A Serious Man," when the Korean father of one of Larry's students comes calling. Larry believes the student tried to bribe him, leaving a thick envelope of cash on his desk. The father disputes this and plans to sue Larry for defamation.
Unless, of course, Larry keeps the cash and changes the kid's grade.
Larry, understandably, is confused. How can you sue for defamation if you're copping to the envelope's existence?
The father's advice? "Accept the mystery."
Is that the way the Coens would like people to approach their films?
"Yes! Please!" Joel begs. "We don't engage in a lot of reflection when it comes to our movies -- "
" -- and we'd love it if everyone followed our lead," Ethan adds, chuckling.
But when you immerse yourself in their work, there are certain themes, certain threads that, you know, really tie the room together. And while the Coens might dispute that, calling themselves mere "storytellers," we can't help but think that "A Serious Man" is just the latest example of the brothers' idiosyncratically personal filmmaking.
A look at what they've secretly been trying to tell us:
Blood Simple (1984)
Defining dialogue: "The world is full of complainers. But the fact is, nothing comes with a guarantee. I don't care if you're the pope of Rome, president of the United States, or even man of the year -- something can always go wrong."
The curtain-raiser and template-setter for what was to come. It's all there -- the worship of the hard-boiled detective fiction of James M. Cain, the presence of Frances McDormand (who'd marry Joel in 1984), the yo-yo-ing between high and low impulses, the serious purposefulness filtered through irony. And that opening line, spoken by M. Emmet Walsh, neatly sums up their latest movie, as well as their initial salvo.
The smokiness of the candied bacon bits that rimmed the martini glass subtly augmented the woodsy flavor of the bacon-infused Woodford Reserve bourbon, with a sweet finish from the similarly woodsy maple syrup (used in place of sweet vermouth), making for an almost irresistable cocktail from top to bottom.
one to go on their automobiles. Urge your fellow members to wear their buttons and display the glossy stickers during the entire Christmas season.
This isn't a complicated vocabulary, with thousands of words. Nonetheless, it's clear that for many animals, alarm calls are more than simple squawks of fear. Vervet monkeys, for instance, use different sounds to warn of different types of predator. "Leopard!" is not the same as "snake!" or "eagle!" If you hide a loudspeaker in the bushes, and startle unsuspecting monkeys by playing recordings of "snake!" at them, they will look around at the ground. "Eagle!" makes them look up. "Leopard!" sends them scampering to the trees. 
Some animals make rather subtle distinctions. Gunnison's prairie dogs have a different sound for each of coyotes, dogs, hawks and humans. More impressive, they describe what a particular dangerous animal looks like: a human in a blue shirt is announced differently from a human in a yellow shirt. Similarly, meerkats — those charismatic mongooses that stand on their hind legs to scan for predators — give calls that announce both the general type of predator (coming from the sky, coming from the ground) and how close it is — in other words, how urgently everyone should react. Black-capped chickadees — small songbirds that live in North America — have calls that say whether a predator is flying or resting, and if it is resting, how dangerous it is. For example, pygmy owls eat lots of songbirds; horned owls don't. Sure enough, chickadees kick up more of a fuss about perched pygmy owls than they do about perched horned owls. 
