Adjust playback speed for any video. Video speed controller for your videos
Super Video Speed Controller allows to increase or decrease playback speed on any web site.
Features:
🎥 Work almost everywhere
🎥 You can adjust using presets or set a custom speed as a percentage
🎥 Use shortcuts
Quick Start: Find the “Super Video Speed Controller” icon by opening the menu under the “puzzle” icon on the toolbar.
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Download and install the extension from the Google Chrome Webstore or Edge Add-ons marketplace
Steps:
Open the video in the active tab. Start playback.
Adjust using the extension’s popup:
The technology works both on large sites and on little-known ones. The coverage of the sites is 99%
You can put it as a percentage and specify the exact value (e.g. +17; -29). Unlike, for example, the Youtube player, where you can put only certain values that are offered to you.
Use the following Keyboard shortcuts:
Super Video Speed Controller for Chrome is available in Chrome Web Store
Super Video Speed Controller for Edge is available in the Edge Add-ons marketplace.
To speak of Chris Kraus is to immediately confront a problem of categorization. Is she a novelist? An essayist? A diarist? A performance artist with a book advance? The reductive label often applied to her most famous work, I Love Dick (1997)—"the novel that invented auto-fiction"—is both accurate and wildly insufficient. Kraus did not invent the blending of life and art, but she detonated the form with a specific, volatile charge: the weaponization of female humiliation, the intellectualization of obsession, and the brutal dismantling of the art world’s pretensions.
For decades, Kraus was a cult figure, revered in art schools and radical bookshops but largely ignored by the mainstream literary establishment. That changed with the 2016 Amazon series adaptation of I Love Dick (created by Jill Soloway), which brought her work to a wider audience, sparking a renaissance of interest in her back catalog.
In Torpor (2006) and Summer of Hate (2012), she continued to explore uncomfortable territories: the age gap in relationships, the grim reality of the American prison-industrial complex, and the inevitable decline of the avant-garde into gentrification. chris kraus
Born in 1955 in New York, raised in New Zealand, and returned to the Lower East Side of the 1970s, Kraus was forged in the crucible of No Wave cinema and radical performance art. Before she was a writer, she was a filmmaker, creating low-budget, narrative-bending works like Gravity & Grace (1996). This background is crucial: Kraus never learns to write; she frames writing. Her books are not stories; they are installations. They are assemblages of letters, criticism, academic theory, phone messages, and raw, unvarnished confession.
Kraus uses her personal experience of obsession to interrogate the male gaze and create a space for female desire, making her life the raw material for intellectual and critical inquiry. To speak of Chris Kraus is to immediately
The book is noted for its "shamelessness," a necessary component to make the private public and, in doing so, liberating it from societal taboo. Key Themes in the Work of Chris Kraus
Kraus’s later work cements her role as a fierce cultural diagnostician. Where Art Belongs (2011) is a collection of essays that dismantles the gentrified, corporate art world of the 2000s, contrasting it with the scrappy, ideological spaces of the 1980s. She champions the "small press" and the "artist-run space" as sites of genuine resistance. A diarist
In the mid-1990s, a slim, pink-covered book titled I Love Dick quietly entered the literary world. Ostensibly a memoir about a failing marriage and an obsessive crush on a cultural theorist, the book confounded critics. It read like a diary, looked like a manifesto, and felt like a raw nerve exposed to open air. Its author, Chris Kraus, was then primarily known as an indie filmmaker and the co-editor of the small press Semiotext(e).
Her 2017 novel, Summer of Hate , turns her gaze to the intersection of art world cynicism and the American carceral state, following a romance between a disgraced art dealer and a convicted felon in Albuquerque. It is a bleaker, more political book, reflecting a post-2008 crash and post-Trump election reality, yet it remains recognizably Krausian: deeply intellectual, morally ambiguous, and unafraid of the ugly.