It’s seriously wonderous to watch you swim: the grace of your flip turns, the fluidity of your backstrokes, your spontaneous dips to the bottom of the deep end, all of which I suspect you slyly spent a lifetime practicing, quietly hamming it up underwater. But what makes it is the calm, coy look you all wear, half Esther Williams smile to cover an obvious corporeal glee.
I read the The Female Complaint. What a hoot! I am now compelled to “live a better cliche”, and have learned that “falling in love isn’t a very good way of getting to know someone”. I am amused and enthralled by your sharp readings of Showboat (people can never goof enough on Edna Ferber, in my opinion), your indulgence of Imitation of Life, your ability to mock Dorothy Parker, and your ability to use archival material without making a tribute to its object. I am also compelled to watch She-Devil.
But even more than your awesome Duke monograph (which at least has the removing paratexts of the form), I am intimidated by your hilarious and engaged blog. Your review of Sex and the City,
I’ve been working through Barbara Stanwyck’s movies ever since Anthony Lane’s essay in the NYer last spring. Conceptually, Ball of Fire might be a bit of a stretch: 12 bachelor learned men living in a house together while they perfect their encyclopedia, only to have their erudite bliss disrupted by a slang-mouthed stripper. But whatever, I thought it was fun.
Also, some brave soul has united dear Stanwyck with T-Pain’s breakout hit. Loves it!