Restraint, if you can swing it, is a beautiful thing.
Clearly in the lovestruck early stages of an infatuation, our lovely ladies are just beaming out with the most pure, most virginal love comprised of some amalgamation of sunshine, smiles, rainbows, and dreams that would rival any neon train wreck from the mind of beloved Lisa Frank.
I wish this hadn’t been Leo’s year to win the Best Actor Oscar, because Eddie Redmayne is so heartbreakingly good in this movie, I can’t handle it.
Here we get to be as loud as we want, scream out the shittiness of not loving someone anymore, of becoming boring in someone else’s heart.
There’s something particularly marvelous in reading a book about an actual time and an actual art movement in which the female figures come naturally to the fore.
Sweeping violin, round, slow drums, little threads of plinky piano pile up on top of one another…
You don’t prioritize the male gaze in what’s supposed to be a feminist book. This shouldn’t even need to be said.
Plett creates a community of characters that is familiar but not codependent.
I have not tired of Automatic for the People in twenty-four years.