Liars and Saints

  "Babygirl" is a little vague about its protagonist's desires. Romy, a CEO who works with automation, is herself a kind of robot; she has never had an orgasm in almost twenty years of marriage. Secretly, she wants to crawl on all fours, lick milk (doggy-style) from a saucer, and submit to simple commands ("undress," "spread your legs"). These wishes seem sort of "vanilla" in flavor, but they have inspired such shame in Romy, she has kept mum for decades, and she has learned to hate herself. A young intern, Samuel, intuits Romy's wish to be (mildly) humiliated, and an affair begins. Romy now has what she wants, but she may need to sacrifice her marriage. The movie never makes a convincing case that the marriage truly means the world to Romy, perhaps because of some bad expository dialogue. ("My marriage truly means the world to me!") The director is a little more persuasive when she suggests that job-loss would be a devastating ...

  It can be tricky to be the child of a writer. That's because writers tend to have two interests, films and bookstores. That's not a wide range. My son Josh can't tolerate movies, and this is hard for me to accept. Yesterday, Susie and I took our first "solo" trip to the cinema; the title was "Vengeance Most Fowl," the story was delightful, and the entire afternoon was marked by a notable absence of struggle. By contrast, with Josh, my options are: shooting hoops, playing catch, and bouncing the bouncy ball. That's not to imply that bouncy balls are something less than an absolute treat. I recommend this game in the intervals between potty visits: It's great to have pure chaos, no undies, no diapers, in the presence of a little Quidditch ball (with a mind of its own).  Josh seems to have an agenda, a campaign to make me less recessive. When I want to read, he sneaks into the kitchen, mixes water with Life cereal, adds ground black pepper, and st...

  "Commitment" is a novel about improvisation. It's about sailing along in a mouse-infested boat, plugging holes with steel wool. In the first scene, a family in the Palisades prepares to send one son to Berkeley. The mom (Diane) is a single mom; she has a nervous condition, so she can't handle the drive across California. She is entrusting her child to strangers. One stranger, in a casual way, says, "I don't know what you're thinking. I wouldn't miss this drive for the world." Within a few days, Diane will stop speaking, stop leaving her bed; she will have a full mental breakdown, and she will literally never recover; she will hang on in a semi-vegetative state, for years and years, until she dies. In the wake of Diane's tragedy, the family bends some rules. It's probably illegal for the younger children not to enter the "care" of the state of California, but they remain in their house, and they find a surrogate mom in the form...

  "A Complete Unknown" seems weirdly prudish, especially since its subject is a sexy writer: Kick your shoes off, do not fear. And bring that bottle over here. Cause I'll be your baby tonight. Given that this movie is centered on not one but two sexual relationships, it would be useful to see the lead characters "behaving" in bed. Also, since Bob Dylan is such an asshole, the bedroom scenes might help to explain his appeal. But the camera gets shy. It's like we're watching a high-school production of the Bob Dylan story. That said, the part of the movie that really interests me (and interests most viewers) is the story of Dylan and Johnny Cash. Though the movie doesn't have time for Dylan's literary training, a brief Internet search reveals that Dylan is fond of Rimbaud, "The Odyssey," Brecht, "All Quiet on the Western Front," T.S. Eliot, William Blake, "Moby Dick." He arrives in New York with these particular voices...

  My dog had a challenging summer. He developed a mysterious cough; we thought it was Kennel Cough. In fact, it was not. It was heartening to learn that we'd steered clear of Kennel Cough--but once the words are in the air, they leave a certain "odor." It's like if you're indicted for murder, and then you're found "not guilty"? You still carry certain words with you, for the rest of your life. "Indicted for murder." (Also, it's like the child on the playground who says, "Don't worry! I don't have  pinkeye !" A certain kind of silence fills the space....) Distressed by the cough, and perhaps coping with early signs of old age, Salvy began to pee in my basement. The basement was there; it was earthy; it had fun new smells, because of a renovation. He couldn't resist. Additionally, Salvy's best friend, Shep, departed for a year abroad, in Madrid. We haven't found a suitable replacement. My husband is more astu...

 Tilda Swinton has the "glamorous" role in the new Almodovar film; it's Swinton who has a Golden Globe nomination. But my heart belongs to Julianne Moore. It's always Moore's character whom I "relate to" when I hear this story.  Moore is a weird, mostly isolated writer who spends her free time reading Sigrid Nunez novels and thinking about a possible "Virginia Woolf project." (Famously, Nunez, the inspiration for the Almodovar film, wrote an entire novel, "Mitz," about Woolf's pet marmoset.) Moore agrees to help Swinton with a major endeavor, because she wishes to be a good friend, but also, I suspect, because she wants access to good material. ("Writers are like cockroaches," Nunez says. "Tell us the novel is dead, and we'll just publish our diaries, and we'll say it's a new genre,  autofiction ....") Moore asks Swinton, "May I tell your story?" -- and I can't be alone in wondering if...

  "Maybe Happy Ending" seems to borrow themes from "Kimberly Akimbo," although I understand that "MHE" might actually predate "Kimberly." Both shows are about love and death.  It's interesting to describe death in a theater--because, in a theater, you're keenly aware of the passage of time. Every second is "curated." As in "Kimberly Akimbo," "MHE" heavily suggests that the evening may end with the protagonist's death. Curtain--or death? Which will come first? The question generates suspense. Here is the story. Oliver and Claire are essentially twentysomethings; they are called "robots," but the robot idea is just an elaborate metaphor for being 23 years old. Oliver has trouble with social functioning--as any 23-year-old might. He has "unresolved" bits of trauma from an unexamined youth--as any 23-year-old might. He shows signs of impetuousness, an inability to think things through--as ...