For me personally, this week kind of sucked: my foster kittens left earlier than anticipated, one of my cats has an eye injury that requires a cone/cost a usurious amount of money, I had a UTI for the first time since college, and my Louisville travel plans were canceled c/o the UPS plane crash/FAA flight cuts. For the world at large, a sliver of hope has been restored. Tuesday's election results delivered an emphatic "fuck you, you fucking fuck" to Donald Trump and his soulless dipshit goon squad. I don't allow myself to get excited about politicians because I learned my lesson with Obama, but it's hard to resist the Mamdani hype. His politics are sound and he seems like a reasonable person who legitimately cares about other people. Right now, all I want is a sane, rational, empathetic leader who doesn't already have one foot in the grave.
In my cognizant lifetime, the Democrats have been historically awful at embracing change and ignoring their own selfish agendas for the good of the many, but I hope this is a turning point that leaves them no other choice. Nancy Pelosi's retirement was announced yesterday, which feels like a good omen. Bitch has been in Congress longer than I've been alive and anyone who says she's not corrupt as hell is living in delusion. Let's get some new, progressive blood in her seat. It's time to start challenging all the crusty establishment Dems instead of letting them dive into their Scrooge McDuck coin pools while doing fuckall for their constituents. Chuck Schumer, you're next, you ol' bag o' dust (that's his drag name).
I'm sending this newsletter late tonight because I just got out of "Die My Love" and figured I would probably want to write something about it even if I hated it. Thankfully, I really liked it. I have one major criticism (involving LaKeith Stanfield's character), but everything else worked for me. I've never read the 2012 book it's based on by Ariana Harwicz, so I can't speak to the adaptation, but I can say that I found the film, like all of Lynne Ramsay's work, deeply threatening, claustrophobic, and depressing. She constantly challenges the viewer by putting them into Grace's (Jennifer Lawrence) headspace, which I assure you is not a pleasant place to be. Think: disgusting, sweaty cacophony that makes you long for the sweet release of death.
The film's general premise is that Grace and her partner, Jackson (for once, a perfectly cast Robert Pattinson), move into his uncle's old house in the country because they're about to have a baby. We get the sense that they've moved here from a bigger city, but details aren't given. In the brief pre-baby period, it's a fun time (although there is a perpetual hint of menace). They're attracted to each other, dancing around and fucking on the floor of their dilapidated, wildly-wallpapered inheritance, etc. Post-baby, Grace languidly strolls through the field with a kitchen knife and you get the sense that she hasn't yet decided what she's going to do with it. The rest of the film is an exploration of her mental state as she rockets from one head wound to the next. Sissy Spacek plays her mother-in-law in a role reminiscent of Ruth Deaver in S1 of "Castle Rock" with a touch of Holly in "Badlands." The image of her walking down a dirt road with a shotgun is one I won't soon forget.
If you try to intellectualize this movie too much, you'll probably hate it. You have to embrace what it's throwing down and get on its wavelength. The people in my theater seemed very frustrated when anything illogical happened, whisper-screaming to each other about whether it was literal or in Grace's mind. "Who cares, you dumb fucks. It doesn't matter," I felt like screaming but didn't because I'm a mild-mannered person who internalizes my rage. I'm also the type of person who, if I were to ever have a baby, would probably descend into a very Grace-like state of mental chaos. I appreciate that, while extremely emotionally unstable, she never takes her rage out on the baby; the baby isn't the problem, it's the diminished sense of self that came with him.
So many people I respect are calling this movie half-baked and I vehemently disagree! More TK.
Watch if you like: being brutalized for two hours, Andrew Wyeth, Nicolas Roeg, excellent soundtracks, watching Jennifer Lawrence in a legitimately good film that understands how to utilize her talent, "Nightbitch" if it didn't make so many terrible choices.
Specifically, I'm recommending a short story from Celia Dale's stupidly out of print "A Personal Call and Other Stories." If anyone wants to read it, let me know and I'll send you a PDF. We can pretend we're in English class and I promise it will be fun. If that's unappealing, go read anything else from Dale because she's fantastic and, thanks to Daunt Books, is now easily accessible via Blackwell's, which ships to the US for free (god bless the printed matter dumbfuck tariff exemption). Start with "A Spring of Love" (1960) and then let the spirit guide you. Your library should carry these, too. If they don't, put in a request.
Anyway, this story is so short that you can probably read it in fifteen minutes. I could tell you what it's about, but let's just start from the beginning for a taste of what we're in for:
There are many such men, you understand. Unfortunately for us women. And they always marry. It becomes necessary, therefore, for a woman with sense to consider very carefully before she commits herself. One learns caution. I've no doubt women have learned caution from men like that all over the world, in New York and London and Timbuctoo.
If that snippet doesn't whet your whistle, I'm not sure Dale has anything to offer you. Like many of my other favorites, she's dark as hell and very interested in shades of moral depravity. "Lines of Communication" won the 1986 Crime Writers Association Veuve Clicquot (ok) Short Story Award and while I guess she's considered a crime writer, that label feels too simplistic. Writer Susan Hill allegedly described her as "a past mistress of the bizarre truth behind normal facades," which is about as complimentary as it gets.
Read if you like: Caroline Blackwood, Barbara Comyns, Alfred Hayes, Shirley Jackson, Muriel Spark, any of the other weirdos I've previously mentioned, Lynne Ramsay, elder abuse, people who hate their mothers.
I came of age in the early aughts, so my favorite pop girlies are Mariah Carey, Britney Spears, Lady Gaga, and Janet Jackson. They all had at least one big album during my formative years when I still felt the need to pretend I enjoyed things like dancing and having "fun," so there's a nostalgia element to their music. As an adult, I don't listen to much traditional pop aside from Carly Rae Jepsen. I don't have anything against it, I just don't love being reminded that I'm a bitter, surly killjoy who is steps away from "old [wo]man yells at cloud" territory. If someone told me I could attend a Taylor Swift stadium concert or get shot in the back of the head, I probably wouldn't choose death, but I would heavily consider it.
Now that you know what my mainstream pop appreciation baseline is, are you surprised I'm into this new Hilary Duff song? As an avid teen fan of "Laguna Beach," the lyrics to "Come Clean" are forever burned into my brain. Between that hit, "Lizzie McGuire," and "A Cinderella Story," Duff apparently garnered my support for life because no matter what she's involved in, I'm always curious enough to investigate. I wouldn't say she's a particularly strong singer or actor, yet it somehow doesn't matter; her appeal comes from an ineffable charisma I'll never be able to properly articulate. Maybe what I like about her is that she seems aware of her own limitations and chooses her projects accordingly. She's never shooting for the stars with some overly ambitious dramatic role or vocally intricate song that sets her up for failure. She knows what she's good at, does it, and the people leave happy.
In the case of "Mature," it's also refreshing that the lyrics — written by Duff, her husband Matthew Koma, and Madison Love — reflect back on youthful folly from a 30-something's experience. Duff, who came of age in the public eye, is no stranger to the blind item, and these lyrics play into gossip fonder, inviting speculation with lines like, "Very Leo of you with your Scorpio touch." The video itself is simple, stylish, tells a story, and edits wisely to avoid any awkward dance moments. A gem! I am fully here for the Duffissance.
P.S. Anita, please note the "Strawberry Letter 23" shoutout.
I just finished a "Mad Men" rewatch, so it's only fitting that I've now turned to "The Sopranos" to see where Matthew Weiner, who was a writer and executive producer during the final three seasons, got some of his inspiration. I must confess that I've never actually done a proper deep dive on the show. I saw it once during my sophomore year of college because a guy in my dorm had every season on DVD. This was 2009, the year I discovered weed, so I'm now coming back to it sixteen years later with nothing more than a few hazy memories. You know how people say shit like, "I wish I could watch [fill in the blank] again for the first time?" Consume enough weed to give yourself a mild lobotomy and you can!
I'm currently seven episodes into the first season, which is now 26 years old. The last one I watched, "Down Neck,” featured flashbacks to Tony’s (James Gandolfini) childhood when he discovers that his father does more than just retail meat and provisions. At this point, he's already confessed his love to his therapist, Dr. Melfi (Lorraine Bracco), and garroted Febby Petrulio while on a visit to Bowdoin College with his daughter, Meadow (Jamie-Lynn Sigler). He's on Prozac and Xanax, wading his way through all the shit he's been suppressing for nearly four decades. What I like most about this show as a viewer in 2025 is how well it illustrates the emptiness of capitalism. Tony technically has everything — a family, power, money, mistresses — but when the ducks leave, it all goes to shit. He's rotting from the inside out and while it's technically possible for him to change, it's realistically beyond his capability. He's in too deep and the rot is now a part of him. Everything he does to try to stop it is pointless because we all know how it's going to end.
Things I forgot about the show: Christopher (Michael Imperioli) is tragically hilarious, John Heard has a great small role, and Carmela is too much of a caricature until they let Edie Falco cook.
Watch if you like: great cameos (including one from our gal, Juliana Marguiles), the generational trauma of "Gilmore Girls," collecting prime screenshots from TV shows for your group chat, the mob wife aesthetic.
MoMA's currently in the midst of a Sofia Coppola tribute, so last weekend, I saw "The Virgin Suicides" and this weekend, it's "Marie Antoinette" (2006). I didn't watch any Coppola films in theaters until "The Bling Ring" (2013) and I have to say, it makes a huge difference. The impression I retained after having last watched "The Virgin Suicides" over a decade ago is one of abject misery. I either didn't remember the humor or maybe failed to pick up on it, but it played well in a crowded room with somewhat regular laughs until the quadruple-suicide denouement snuffed out the charming teen awkwardness.
Watching it as a teen myself, I felt annoyed by the lack of distinct personality from each of the girls. The only two I could keep straight were Cecilia (Hanna R. Hall), the first to go, and Lux (Kirsten Dunst), the rebellious one. The three older sisters blended into each other with nary a unique characteristic. As an adult, especially after having read the book, it's easier to see how this plays into the neighborhood boys' mythos of the Lisbons. I like how Emma-Lee Moss describes it in an essay she wrote for The Guardian:
While they live, the Lisbon sisters are observed in lots of ways, all of which reinforce their isolation. They are five copies of the same girl, or living myths, like the Kennedys. Sometimes they are five adjacent solitudes with cartoon-like personal quirks, like a bleak sibling version of the Spice Girls (the pretty one, the smart one, the weird one, the oldest, “mean one, pulling my hair …”). It’s no wonder the girls have no comfort but each other, and in the familiar pattern of their five, then four-starred, constellation.
I recently discovered that several of my friends haven't seen this movie, which I found shocking. For me, it was a high school classic, but my friend Ashley says it has bad connotations for her because she thinks of it as "the type of movie girls on Tumblr said was their favorite in 2004 for clout." If you feel similarly and as a result, haven't ever seen it, give it a go. It's more than just soft-focus 70s dreamscapes, Catholic iconography, and i's dotted with hearts.
Watch if you like: the underlying ennui of a shimmering summer day, suburban malaise, "Picnic at Hanging Rock," useless parents, the madness that comes with forced isolation.
If you haven't already, consider acquiring a copy of "A Visit to William Blake’s Inn: Poems for Innocent and Experienced Travelers" (1981). The words are by Nancy Willard of "Nightgown Of The Sullen Moon" fame, which, I only just now learned, John Linnell was not familiar with when he wrote a song by the same name for They Will Be Giants in 1989. Alice and Martin Provensen, the best couple to ever do it, are responsible for the illustrations.
With children's books, I feel it's rare for the images and the text to be of similar caliber; in this instance, they're both great. My favorite poem is of course "The King of Cats Sends a Postcard to His Wife."
