Skip to main content

On Hating "When Harry Met Sally"

"When Harry Met Sally" is not the masterpiece people want it to be.

Oh, sure. It's clever. The fake orgasm! The "dating rolodex" that Carrie Fisher keeps in her purse! The way Sally places an order in a diner!

But this isn't a movie with living, breathing characters. It's a movie where Nora Ephron talks to Nora Ephron. Harry is Nora. Sally is Nora. I think Nora knew that, and I think Nora's greatest strength was in the form of the personal essay. But maybe you can't put bread--or enough bread--on the table, if you're simply writing personal essays.

I grow tired of the formula even before it's written out. Boy and Girl will attempt to arrange the love lives of others, but, in trying, they will fail. In failing, they will find themselves coming closer together. Sex will be a disastrous event, a detonation of a small bomb, and then there will be weeks of silence. Boy will recite all the particular quirks he loves in Girl: "the fact that you're cold when it's seventy degrees," "the fact that you cry during CASABLANCA...." This recitation will cause Girl to melt.

I'm not saying the movie is joyless. There's the fun, fake dialogue; the shots of New York at Christmas; the Harry Connick score.

But let's stop pretending this is a great movie.

When Ephron's film came out, people said, This is derivative of Woody Allen, and it's not as good.

Then there was a backlash: How rude to say, just because it's witty and it deals with heterosexual NYC romance, it's derivative of Woody Allen!

And I'm here to offer this: Actually, "Harry Met Sally" *is* a poor copy of a good Woody Allen movie, and if you want something really striking and fresh in a script, I recommend "Love and Death." There, the two leads do not end up together, one actually seems to count the days until the other might be murdered, and Napoleon--Napoleon himself!--has a memorable bedroom cameo involving wine and a clumsy faux-seduction. This is the work of a truly eccentric, truly gifted screenwriter. It's better than anything Meg Ryan has done.

Not a popular opinion, I think, but I'll defend it to my grave. We can agree to disagree.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...