I made the trek to Westwood to see Licorice Pizza and listen, I’m no hater, I adored Phantom Thread so damn hard, but I need to know what kind of entitlement PTA was snorting and what the fuck is up with all those gushing reviews, cause this was just straight up a super messy, unfocused, first draft kind of script weighed down with A lister flexing. I will say this — Hoffman Jr. is cute and charming, and it’s delightful to watch Sean Penn and honestly even just to listen to the incredible timber of his voice. But the central story was cut loose at sea, probably because of how dicey of a premise it is in the world of today. Alana Haim is a reasonably good actor but there was really nothing memorable about her face or her presence, and why did they feature her nipples so much? Paying for “Life on Mars” and destroying a vintage Ferrari just felt so out of proportion to what was up on screen. And insisting that the film’s first run be only in 70mm was beyond silly when it was shot on some grainy stock to make it look old-timey.
I had a hernia operation that forced me to lie still for a minute, and I decided to dive into TV which I almost never do. It’s a strange world to come back to, with its odd, writing-driven artificiality. I paid the 15 bucks for a month of HBO and dutifully sat through partial or full episodes of Succession, Big Little Lies, Hacks, White Lotus, Mare of Easttown and such, and was entertained to varying degrees. But then I hit on I May Destroy You, praaaaise Jesus — finally something relatable, something that feels like actual lived experience played with a dose of humor.
And then I got into Insecure and got obsessed and literally binged all five seasons in just over a week.
What a miraculous little show. It has been discussed and praised quite a bit and there’s no need for me to add my voice to the choir, but seeing L.A. from a south of the 10 perspective was so refreshing, and the way they allowed relationships to develop and fall apart organically just felt so thoughtful and so the opposite of what TV tends to do. It also exposed me to a lot of music I would have never heard otherwise; of course I gravitated toward the sassy female hip hop (“Like That Bitch” by Flo Milli, “Whew Chile” by Dai Burger)
But even favoriter was the pained and vulnerable slow jam Supply Luh by Childish Major.
I started poring over the various year-end best-of charts, and that would bleed into January, but one record I had missed was Afrique Victime by Mdou Moctar, which rocked my panties off with that irresistible Tuareg weave of Sahara-spanning, sandpapered electric guitar and call and response vocals that I so adore in my personal Rock Lords and Saviors Tinariwen.