A narrative device I have particular hatred for: a character saying a name aloud in his/her sleep as a revelatory plot measure.
Watching Vera Drake last week. Everyone gets behind that movie somehow, pro-choicers, anti-abortion people; people see what they want to see in it, see themselves in it. The anti-choicers see her having a moral revelation, getting what she deserves or at least realizing that what she’s done for the past twenty-thirty years is wrong. Which is not what I see, of course. I see an amazingly crafted story in a working class neighborhood that draws, with precision, the ways in which women are trapped living in a world of man-made laws; the secret constant network of women helping each other, and having this huge world not receiving any acknowledgment or reflection in the civilization around them, that’s what I see.
I shouldn’t be copying PC–I should be writing the anti-Namesake (dialogue between hysterical rants/well-made novel)–literally the daughter of P (he’s a do gooder lawyer with a penchant for shiksas who married an Israeli girl, divorced her, now convinced he’s a member of the lost tribes of America–has become Mormon, possibly?–this absent, absent father)–and her hotpants mother who’s sad over her political or rather professional failures)–
Why did I never let myself appreciate Gwen Stefani and No Doubt at the height of its powers? She is a fucking rock star, a badass rock star, and shameless with it. “Just a Girl” is outstanding; I always loved “Don’t Speak” despite myself. Will I let myself enjoy her solo stuff, or will I have to enjoy it five years from now, like I did with Nirvana?