It would’ve been too easy to post this on Valentine’s Day; the truth is I didn’t think of it. For all my obscure interests in the other arts, I remain a passionate fan of the crappy romantic comedy (A best friend of mine justifies his love of Journey by turning an imaginary “ironic light” on in his car every time he wants to rock out to ‘Open Arms’. In that way, he hopes that the cars around his mundane ford Exploder watching him jam to ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ with the windows down will see that he is so above anyone’s snobbery that he can enjoy a good cockrock tune like a normal plebian. He compensates by owning the entire collections of an arsenal of [perfectly awful] early punk bans. I’m not as bashful.)

I cover up my mostly awful taste in movies by mostly refusing to watch them. (The sole exception is Fall 2003, after I’d deferred my admission to medical school and was scrambling to find a way to Senegal. I joined Netflix and rejoined the public library; between those two venues I had only to visit the local video store (this was my ardently anti-corporation phase) once or twice a month. I watched a movie a day and read (most of) a book a day. So now I can say I’ve seen the black and whites and every New Wave films snobs namedrop.)

But a few weeks ago, I flipped by Turner Movies right as Out of Africa was starting, and settled in for most of the haul. Now this, this is a crappy romantic comedy masquerading as an outstanding arthouse film.

Meryl Streep is quirky and obstinate, everything you want in the heroine of a romantic comedy. Also, she’s an imperfect beauty, allowing a girl to pretend she too could be as witty and desireable to Karen. As her vagabond hunter, Robert Redford has the charisma and fucking hotness required of the protagonist. She lusts after him, he toys with her. They enjoy hot trysts and then there’s the obligatory, true to life, unhappy ending. A shameless pleasure.


I’m eating:
String cheese. Seriously, what is wrong with me?