Girls Gone Critical

First, a disclaimer: I’ve only seen the Girls pilot. All of these thoughts pertain only to the pilot, and I reserve the right to go back and reverse all of the ensuing opinions if certain problems are addressed. I know, David Simon views me as part of the problem, whatever.

I…well, I didn’t hate the Girls pilot. But after weeks and weeks of everyone declaring it The Show That Saved Television, blah blah hilariouscakes, all I could think was, “…Really?” Less than ten minutes in and I was losing patience with the characters.

This is not a matter of not wanting to see people struggle with becoming an adult. Look, I am barely an adult: I eat cereal for a lot of meals. I had my entire life stolen just a month ago. I almost died after tripping and stabbing myself in the neck with a steak knife (almost severed my jugular; needed ten stitches). I want very much to see a humorous account of becoming an adult in this city, because that is literally my life right now.

So no, I didn’t hate the Girls pilot. I did, however, hate the vast majority of its characters (Marnie, you’re my only hope). I understand that this is basically the point of the show. We’re not meant to think these people are especially worthy of our sympathy or love. And that shouldn’t be as large a problem as it was for me this time: after all, the core Seinfeld characters are reprehensible, and millions of people continue to enjoy their antics in syndication. The same goes for the It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia gang– there are virtually no redeeming qualities to any of those people. But I love that show. So what is it about the decidedly antiheroic Girls that puts me off so much?

Alyssa Rosenberg at ThinkProgress (among several others) has made the point that we should be able to have female antiheroes like Hannah. For me, the problem with the Girls pilot, though, is that I don’t see Hannah as any kind of antihero. She’s just an entitled asshole, like the ones I spent most of my time at Northwestern avoiding.

I was disgusted by Hannah, not because she’s not stick-thin or has sex with gross hipsters and we see all of these things, or because she’s allowed her parents to support her for two years after college, or even because she took the money her parents left for Housekeeping; but because she doesn’t treat Adam as the disposable sex object he should be to her; because she expects her parents to support her.* In theory, Hannah’s rude awakening should be heartbreaking, but in practice, it’s just irritating.

*I’ve always thought it’s stupid and counterproductive to dislike people merely for coming from privilege. It’s not like my life was full of hard knocks, and most people don’t choose where they’re from. But there’s a difference between “coming from privilege” and “being entitled.” Disliking people for being entitled? Who expect things from adult life that do not jive with how the real world works, like Hannah does? I think that’s fine, and for me, it has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with socioeconomics.

It’s entirely possible that Girls holds up a funhouse mirror to me, showing what I could have been (or could yet be; I am still 24); and that, unlike with the Sunny or Seinfeld gangs, it is this “too close to home” aspect that, well, hits too close to home.

There have been a lot of comparisons (and contrasts) with Louie, another show that sometimes hits a bit too close to home, in the best way possible. The tones aren’t quite the same, but the similarities are enough that you can make those comparisons. Louie himself isn’t always relatable or sympathetic, but there’s a reality to him, a groundedness. This is what I’m hoping Lena Dunham is moving towards: Eventually, in this city, you get grounded. You realize that your college degree is not the mighty shield you thought; it truly is just a scrap of paper, and you are probably going to have to do something you don’t like just to make money, that you can get your creative rocks off elsewhere for a while. Maybe that grounding just happened to me earlier because I had my dreams shattered within a year of moving here, and not enough time has passed to make me feel less disdainful.

That doesn’t speak to the quality of the show (which did make me laugh, though not as much as the other two shows I’ve mentioned, or even Louie). It places the blame squarely on my own shoulders. Maybe the weight just needs to settle.

Two Poles, No Waiting

Everyone needs to read Jace Lacob’s amazing piece on Showtime’s stellar portrayal of bipolar disorder through two different lenses– self, and family. It’s bang-on, and has some really fascinating insights from the Homeland and Shameless writers.

I’ve yet to watch Shameless (it’s on my list), but there’s a reason everyone’s still raving about Claire Danes as Carrie Mathison in Homeland, and it’s because the character is written and portrayed as brutally, guttingly real. Carrie is a tragic figure, but there’s more to her than tragedy. For people like me to finally see ourselves on a screen, not as a murderer or degenerate or a collection of symptoms, but as a person, is truly remarkable.

“People like me,” yes. I’ve alluded to it in the past, but there’s no real point in being coy anymore: I’ve suffered from bipolar disorder for almost as long as I can remember. The toll it’s taken on my life is real, and every day brings with it another battle, but much like those poor souls still stuck in the closet, I’ve been unable to express any of these feelings, not to the people who matter. There’s an intrinsic fear of mental illness (a term I despise) in our society, an ironic nameless something in the back of our mind that whispers to us, “There but for the grace of God….” And so I kept this secret mostly locked inside, not wanting to unduly burden my loved ones. But coming up with excuses or thinly veiled falsehoods for friends (“Oh, I’ve got a bit of a cold, you go on without me”), or having to find a way to put feelings like “I am burning, with a thousand thousand hummingbirds flooding my veins” into normal, non-alarming parlance (“jittery”) wears on you, after a while. You begin to feel alienated, or alienating, even less capable of normalcy than usual. It’s easy to end up in a self-destructive tailspin, where all you can think is, But they can’t know.

So I smiled in sad recognition upon seeing the lengths Carrie goes to to hide her condition. And I felt the familiar clutch of panic in my gut as she descended into a hell where suddenly everything made sense but no one else could see. The strange, frightening joy of utter loneliness, drunk on the power of insight, with one small dark thought gnawing at you: It won’t last. The sudden crack as your mind crashes into the bedrock of reality, and you must once again find a way to gather the pieces. The Homeland writers genuinely understand that there is a certain strength that can come from this condition, and that the accompanying weaknesses are not to be trivialized. Carrie’s coping mechanisms aren’t so different from mine, either: She buries herself in work; I cocoon myself in my writing. We have specific music that must be listened to at certain times (for her it’s jazz; for me, Wilco’s very good at righting a listing ship). Sometimes, we don’t cope at all.

Of course, I doubt I’ll ever be able to share everything that goes on in this strange mass of misfiring neurons. It’s dark stuff, and scary, and that fear of abandonment or being a burden isn’t something that can truly be erased. For now, it is simply enough to say that this is who I am; that, like Carrie, I have my moments of brilliance and darkness, though seldom in equal measure; and that, most importantly, I am more than just a tragedy.

Supervenous: Recapper of Recappers

Well, for The Voice, at least.

“In case you forgot what’s at stake: a contract with Universal Republic. Also, everlasting fame and glory. (Ha! Just kidding. Ask last season’s winner Javier Colon, who I had to look up.)”

A Brief Fictional Account of the NYT Editorial Meeting Yesterday

NYT Editor 1: I’m worried our slide into total irrelevancy is slowing down.
NYT Editor 2: Me too. It’s been, like, weeks since we’ve said something hilariously, grossly wrong about popular culture.
NYT Editor 1: So, what’s our target tomorrow?
Neil Genzlinger: How about I shit all over the fantasy genre, like Ginia did?
NYT Editor 2: Just try not to complain too much about all the boobs. Maybe dial back the complete misinterpretation of the show’s themes. The “interwebs” got kind of upset last time.
NYT Editor 1 looks at him askance.
NYT Editor 2: It’s cool, I was saying “interwebs” ironically, because that joke is still totally fresh.
Joel Stein: I could dash off a quick, half-formed opinion about an entire genre beloved by millions and populated by some truly exceptional books. But I won’t actually read any YA novels. Instead, I’ll just call everyone who reads YA a baby. Literally.
NYT Editor 1: Eh, not quite insulting enough.
Joel Stein: I can add some not-so-subtle misogyny?
NYT Editors 1 and 2: Sold!

Everyone chortles, clinks glasses.

Bookiversary Number One

One year ago, I published my first book. In honor of this momentous folly, I fashioned a new cover, and the thing is available for a limited time for mere tuppence, by which I mean “99 cents.” Go ahead, see if it’s worth it. I dare you.

An Open Letter to Smash

Dear Smash,

I tried. I really did.

I loved your pilot. It was brisk and optimistic without being too overeager, it looked great, and it seemed to have thought out its relationships and characters. Sure, there was a note or two that felt a little sour (forgive me). But what pilot doesn’t have kinks to work out?

When you gave Ivy the part of Marilyn, I nodded in fervent agreement, even though I was pretty sure you wanted us to be rooting for Bland McPhee. This would give you time to make me see the error of my ways, surely. So I slogged through that not-very-good third episode, when the Adoption Subplot That Just Wouldn’t Die literally left a sour, metallic taste in my mouth, like just before you vomit.

But no. Rather than focus on the legitimately interesting process of getting a musical to Broadway, or at least giving the characters we gave a shit about something interesting to do, we got a lot of contrivance, stakes that couldn’t even clear the ground, and more irritating tertiary assholes than we could hiss at. There were scenes that would remind me of the pilot, that felt like they were interactions between real people attempting to bring a dream to life. And then fucking Ellis would sidle around a corner, or Carpet would open his mouth, and that feeling would melt away like my self-worth in the harsh light of a post-bender morning.

With the exception of the last five minutes or so, this last episode was composed entirely of the elements of the show that don’t work. Superfluous non-Broadway numbers, forced family interaction, people doing things that they only do if they’re in TV shows. People fawning over Karen Cartwrong. (I couldn’t stop myself, sorry again.)

We are eight episodes in now, Smash. There are only five episodes left. I am now starting to feel you have squandered my trust. Why is there so much filler? Because that is exactly what everything to do with Dev and Carpet is. Why should I care about what’s going on in City Hall? How is Julia’s family grating and boring at the same time, and why are you making me watch them? It does not add anything to my understanding of her character. Is there not enough material in your premise of creating a musical from scratch to make a much higher percentage of scenes relevant to your main arc? Where is the balance of plot and character development? And no, having your protagonist act like a twat to her friends back home in Iowa does not count as character development.

If the trajectory of this season is any indication, god help you if you get the full 22 for season two. Or– god help us –24. Maybe the departure of current showrunner Theresa Rebeck will be a good thing. At any rate, for the Love of Television, get your shit together.

I’m still rooting for you,
Oriana

Identityless

It’s a cliche because it’s true: You never think it’ll happen to you until it does.

The “it” in this case happened to me in the wee hours of Saturday morning: I turned back to our table in a bar and discovered my bag was gone. The entire thing, just swallowed up into nothing. I punched the wall a few times, we searched high and low; I even went back the next morning, just in case. But no– it was gone. And with it, my:

Keys

Wallet (ID, insurance, credit, and debit cards)

Passport

Work Blackberry

I have learned several valuable lessons since this event occurred: Always keep an eye on your shit or make sure someone else is, even if you’re drunk. Don’t ever agree to go to a place called “Trash Bar.” Don’t go to Williamsburg if your gut is telling you this won’t end well. Never put all your forms of ID in one basket. Etc., etc.

What I wasn’t quite prepared for was a weird psychological side-effect. We’re not just talking lack of sleep over the potential for identity theft– whoever took that bag didn’t even try to use any of the cards, so I’m thinking they saw there was nothing they could make money off of (good luck selling a stolen Blackberry) and just ditched it somewhere, where it’ll rot for eternity. No, it’s the bizarre sense of un-self that keeps stealing over me.

I know who I am. My friends and family know who I am. But now that I have to go through a whole rigmarole to prove that to various governing bodies, it’s all become a bit surreal. I’ll have to present myself in-person to get a copy of my birth certificate, bringing with me a host of papers and cards with my name on them (mostly because it’ll be faster than doing it by mail; I’m lucky I live only an hour or so from where I was born). Once I get that, I’ll have to do the same thing to get a New York license, and something not too dissimilar to get another passport. To have to go through so much effort to prove you exist, that you are who you’ve always been, is a strange thing, and wearing. And so in your darkest mind, when the number of hours of sleep you’ve gotten over the last few days matches the hour the clock shows, you start to wonder…. You snap out of it quickly enough, but it still happens.

I don’t know how long it’ll take to get over something like this. Not long, I expect. In the meantime, don’t look weirded out if you encounter me and I immediately offer to show you a copy of my lease.