Saturday, September 07, 2013
Apparently, Your Aunt Patti is Now Editing The New Yorker
A few weeks ago, The New Yorker devoted three pages of its print edition to a defense of Sex & The City, a show that went off the air almost ten years ago and that, judging by its bestselling DVDs and frequent replays on cable, really is not much in need of defense. Their TV critic, who by the way only infrequently rouses herself to write about shows that are actually happening right now, apparently read some dismissive comments about the show in a book that dealt with The Sopranos, The Wire, etc., and felt a strong need to respond. Because forget about Ulysses, Sex & The City was the greatest artistic achievement in the history of man. The characters were so real! You know, just like your friends who have fabulous apartments in Manhattan on writers' salaries and work at large law firms without ever once having to miss a weekend trip with the gal pals. The concept was so innovative! Because until then, no one had ever thought of reverse-aging The Golden Girls. Feminism! Because I'm pretty sure Gloria Steinem herself spends most of her time brunching and pining after a cold, adulterous, shallow sack of man flesh. So don't worry, the reputation of America's favorite sex comedy starring Seabiscuit has been restored. And keep an eye out for the upcoming takedown of Mary Tyler Moore. Why did people think it was good? She barely even got to first base!
The most recent issue, however, almost topped this with a nearly ten-page article about "the volcanic performances of Claire Danes." Yes, Dame Helen Mirren can go fuck herself, because Claire Danes is the greatest actress any time, anywhere. It seems like nearly every performance she's ever given, save perhaps those Latisse commercials, is giving a thorough tongue bathing. My So Called Life was Ibsen and Terminator 3 was Beckett. And let's not forget her 1992 episode of Law & Order!
I mean, I get it. You like things. But a national magazine is not your Pinterest board. That being said, if The New Yorker ever needs someone to cover Tyra Banks's seismic performances, I'm all over it.
A few weeks ago, The New Yorker devoted three pages of its print edition to a defense of Sex & The City, a show that went off the air almost ten years ago and that, judging by its bestselling DVDs and frequent replays on cable, really is not much in need of defense. Their TV critic, who by the way only infrequently rouses herself to write about shows that are actually happening right now, apparently read some dismissive comments about the show in a book that dealt with The Sopranos, The Wire, etc., and felt a strong need to respond. Because forget about Ulysses, Sex & The City was the greatest artistic achievement in the history of man. The characters were so real! You know, just like your friends who have fabulous apartments in Manhattan on writers' salaries and work at large law firms without ever once having to miss a weekend trip with the gal pals. The concept was so innovative! Because until then, no one had ever thought of reverse-aging The Golden Girls. Feminism! Because I'm pretty sure Gloria Steinem herself spends most of her time brunching and pining after a cold, adulterous, shallow sack of man flesh. So don't worry, the reputation of America's favorite sex comedy starring Seabiscuit has been restored. And keep an eye out for the upcoming takedown of Mary Tyler Moore. Why did people think it was good? She barely even got to first base!
The most recent issue, however, almost topped this with a nearly ten-page article about "the volcanic performances of Claire Danes." Yes, Dame Helen Mirren can go fuck herself, because Claire Danes is the greatest actress any time, anywhere. It seems like nearly every performance she's ever given, save perhaps those Latisse commercials, is giving a thorough tongue bathing. My So Called Life was Ibsen and Terminator 3 was Beckett. And let's not forget her 1992 episode of Law & Order!
I mean, I get it. You like things. But a national magazine is not your Pinterest board. That being said, if The New Yorker ever needs someone to cover Tyra Banks's seismic performances, I'm all over it.
