Okay my anti-Successionistas — finally a post that has absolutely nothing to do with Kendall, Logan, Tom, Gerri, Kerry, Roman, Marcia, Shiv, et al.
I did not care for Pablo Larraín’s Spencer — great gowns, beautiful gowns, Sean Harris, absolutely nothing else. Jackie felt like being trapped in a horrific, glamorous ghost story; the story of a woman haunting her old life as she’s mourning it, stomping her kitten heels and demanding that a dozen men witness her suffering and acknowledge it. Spencer was plagued by long periods of suffocating stasis; a lot of traipsing around in Chanel flats, picking fights in the face of an un-winnable war. A lot of: “This dress instead of that one, no I’m not coming downstairs, yes I’m taking this Scarecrow’s coat and there’s nothing you can do about it.” “It sort of falls apart when you think about it for more than, like, an hour,” I told my coworkers after I saw it. The talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopp…
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