When I was about fifteen, living in the arse-end of nowhere with two buses to somewhere that passed by at seemingly random intervals on specific yet secret days, I would catch what was known as the Cinema Bus into the city every Saturday and head to the movies with my friends and pretend to be a real teenager for a while. Which was great. Right up until the point where I had to come home.
When it comes to the shows that made me, I’ve really been beating around the bush so far. Sure, True Blood introduced me to sex and sexuality and helped me define my career into my adult life, and Neon Genesis Evangelion basically saved my life when I was first dealing with mental illness, but what’s that, truly, in comparison to The Simpsons?
“Bro,” I greeted my brother, who was probably sitting in front of an impossibly intricate and clever spaceship design simulator when I walked into his room. To give you a sense of the scene, I had chewed my nails down to tiny stubs, but still insisted on painting on the shape I thought they should be on the exposed skin in black; my hair, greasy, my skin, flaky, my clothes, unmentionable.
What is the media that made you?
Hmm.
Now, to be clear, I don’t dislike this episode of Sharp Objects. It’s certainly an improvement on last week, where nothing really seemed to happened and the show’s firm grip on its stylistic choices seemed to slip into more cheese than charm. But this week left me feeling a little cold.
What’s a girl gotta do for a decent B-movie around here?
Look, I get it, I do. There are some stories to be told that are going to piss off a lot of people. I’m publishing a book called Rape Jokes. I’m no stranger to the notion of media that tries to shove up against those uncomfortable edges, that takes on sensitive issues in a brash way in an attempt to demystify the unpleasantness at their core.
First off, I just want to follow up on last week’s recap. I declared myself a lifelong die-hard stan for Hagrid, and now I have the proof – my mother (shout out to the big M) dug up some photographs of me as a kid proving my devotion to the big man (hover for captions):
It’s not the death of cinema, calm down
It’s been interesting to note, over the course of writing these recaps, the differing reactions to Sharp Objects as a whole. We’re deep into the season now, with only two episodes left after this one, and it seems like the divide in opinions is pretty sharp (ho ho): you either buy into the show’s dreamy, icy layers and buried thematic elements, or you think it’s a load of pretentious old tosh.
In case you haven’t guessed, I’m firmly in the former category, but I do understand where those other opinions come from. Sharp Objects is a difficult show, and I don’t mean that in the sense that it’s complex or heavy (though it is those things too). Jean-Marc Vallée’s directorial style is dense, the writing is evasive and at times deliberately frustrating, and the story is winding closer to it’s explosive center in a languid, thoughtful fashion. It’s not the hectic, forward-focused crime drama that we’re used to, and I understand and accept criticism of the show as punishing instead of rewarding.
The Cutprice Guignol 