Monthly Archives: January 2014

jazz age january: “down and out in paris and london,” george orwell

The Paris of my imagination was no match for the Paris of my twenty-first birthday. I wasn’t expecting to visit the city at all, due to my dire lack of funds, but I was studying at Cambridge, and my parents bought the Chunnel ticket as a birthday present. I expected excitement, good wine, maybe a two-day love affair with a dark and handsome painter; instead, I found contentment, and I found George Orwell.

Specifically, I found Orwell’s book Down and Out in Paris and London in Shakespeare & Company, which might be the most famous bookshop in the world. The first version was shut down during the German occupation in the Second World War, but before that, it was a pivotal place in Jazz Age literary history. During the 1920s, Ezra Pound, Ernest Hemingway  and James Joyce gathered here; in fact, it was featured in Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. But I bypassed Ulysses and A Farewell to Arms to buy the lesser-known Down and Out. It seemed appropriate. I was in Paris, after all, my budget consisted of pocket change, and I hadn’t showered for almost three days because my cheap hostel shower room was suspiciously missing its door: down and out, indeed.

Orwell lived in Paris from spring 1928 to December 1929, but he certainly wasn’t featured alongside the Fitzgeralds and Hemingway and Dali and Picasso in Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. As you may have deduced from the book’s title, he was dirt poor. He earned his money by teaching English and then washing dishes in grimy restaurants. Just as Paris represented two different places for me–one physical, one fancied–during the Jazz Age, it was a different city for those coming from privilege, and writers who sold the clothes on their back for a loaf of bread.

James Joyce, Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier in the original Shakespeare & Co., 1920.

James Joyce, Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier in the original Shakespeare & Co., 1920.

The book is divided into three parts: first, Paris; second, London; and third, a brief outline on the British laws concerning the poor and homeless.*  The book seems as though it was written in scraps, with stories about different characters lasting either a page or several chapters.  It’s almost more journal-like then a memoir, but Orwell’s descriptions of the places and people that he encountered during this time actually assigns Paris a living, breathing personality:

Life in the quarter. Our bistro, for instance, at the foot of the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux. A tiny brick-floored room, half underground, with wine-sodden tables, and a photograph of a funeral inscribed ‘Crédit est mort’; and red-sashed workmen carving sausage with big jack-knives;… and extraordinarily public love-making. Half the hotel used to meet in the bistro in the evenings. I wish one could find a pub in London a quarter as cheery.

This isn’t a book about glamorous parties, it’s about how the other half lives. It offers vivid descriptions of hunger from several days without food, and the foul conditions of writers that get by as dishwashers in restaurants that would be considered bastions for disease today. It does not romanticize the bohemian artist lifestyle, nor does it sentimentalize poverty. It is a matter of fact account, but (always) sincerely and (mostly) beautifully written.

The Rue du Coq d'Or in the 5th Arrondissement, where Orwell's narration begins. Photo from BBC.

The Rue du Coq d’Or in the 5th Arrondissement, where Orwell’s narration begins. Photo from BBC.

Down and Out reminds us that the debauchery and irresponsibility of the privileged comes at a cost, and that cost is largely the exploitation of the poor.

“There exists in our minds a sort of ideal or typical tramp – a repulsive, rather dangerous creature, who would die rather than work or wash, and wants nothing but to beg, drink and rob hen-houses… I am not saying, of course, that most tramps are ideal characters; I am only saying that they are ordinary human beings, and that if they are worse than other people it is the result and not the cause of their way of life.” (my emphasis)

I loved reading the book a second time just as much as the first, even if I finished it over several lunch breaks instead of the Chunnel ride back to London.  It reminded me that Paris is a signifier. Paris might be one geographical point on a map–but it is a different place, a totally different character–for different people.  Quelle ville, quel livre!

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*I didn’t reread the last part, since all of these laws are specific to the book’s publication date in 1933.

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ten men’s fashion trends women hate

Thank goodness for the Internet’s latest slew of articles on fashion, which are titled some variation of X  Fashion Trends Men Hate. Talk about useful information! Skinny jeans may be the most commonly worn type of jeans amongst young women, but evidently, “men want to leave something to the imagination” and skinny jeans put “your entire body” on display. Gosh, I had no idea that my skinny jeans made me appear naked! What a blessing to have the man’s perspective spelled out for me, so that I can finally start dressing for the male gaze.

I’ve since burned all of my leggings, oversized sweaters, wedges, and red lipsticks in a ceremonial bonfire. Now I’d like to return the favor to men by offering my list of Ten Men’s Fashion Trends That Women Hate:

1. Anything Camo

Listen, like all women, I like my men completely unafraid of danger, so I can totally appreciate a man who can handle a gun. But out of the world’s diverse selection of brown and green splotches, camo is the absolute ugliest combination of brown and green splotches. If you’re going to wear camo, wear it in the woods while you’re out killing bears and wrestling with alligators. Casual camo reminds me of that time Dick Cheney shot his friend in the face. Horrifying.

2. Luxury Crewneck Sweaters

You paid $165 for a sweatshirt? So bourgeois. And bourgeois is so passé. And real fashion inherently hates passé. Pass up the crewneck, boys.

3. High-Designer Athletic Gear

Kanye West in neon sneakers and his infamous leather jogging pangs. from The Shadow League

Kanye West in neon sneakers and his infamous leather jogging pants. from The Shadow League

You should be going to the gym, that much should be ob-vee-ous. No woman wants a man who isn’t buff. But wearing this athletic stuff–varsity jackets, sweatpants–outside of the gym means either that you’re trying to relive your glory days as the star jock in high school or attempting to copy Miley Cyrus’ look in her music video for ’23.’ Either way, trying way too hard.

4. Black and White

I think I’ll let these photos speak for themselves.

5. Colors

Red kitsch, blue kitsch, bright kitsch, dull kitsch. If the color is too bold, it’s too intimidating. If the color is too soft, it’s  too feminine. Do gender roles mean anything anymore? I guess what I’m saying is, avoid wearing Candyland on your body at all costs.

6. Polka Dots, Plaid, Patterns Beginning with ‘P’

You know what else begins with ‘P’? Penis. Yeah, you wish you could work that Freudian trickery on me.

7. Fedoras

Well, look at that! A one-way ticket to the friend zone. Don’t worry, you’ll always have My Little Pony fan fiction to keep you company.

8.  Outerwear with Textures-Denim, Leather, etc.

What, do you think you’re some sort of rebel without a cause? The reign of the leather jacket is the 1950s, and jean jackets need to stay in the 1980s (as does literally anything else from the 1980s). Marcel Proust once wrote, “Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.” This can be roughly translated to, “Don’t dress up in jean or leather jackets, ya nincompoop. Don’t wear jackets at all. You’re a man. Be tough. You can handle the cold.”

9. Skinny Jeans

Gentlemen, you said that women’s skinny jeans leave nothing to the imagination. Did you know it works both ways? Please, spare me from seeing your Battle of the Bulge.

10. Baggy Pants/Cargo Pants/Pants

People Style Watch

People Style Watch

Yeah, I know I just said skinny jeans were out of the question, but hear me out. 1. Baggy pants are awful. Justin Bieber wears them, and he’s the sort of dude who eggs his neighbors and lets his friends take the fall for his cocaine possession. 2. And cargo pants? Well, if you’re a nine-year-old boy who’s running away from home and you need to fill your pockets with provisions like granola and Snickers, go right ahead. Otherwise you should be imposing an embargo on that cargo. In fact, you should probably avoid pants altogether, just to be safe.

What does this leave you with? Bow ties and man buns, but only if you have the face and body to pull them off. And so far only Jared Leto has that privilege.

LA Confidential

A beautiful specimen. LA Confidential

So ultimately what I’m saying is, figure out how to look exactly like Jared Leto. How? It’s not my problem. Maybe you should have thought about that before you were born with the y in your sex chromosome.

don’t call america’s next top model a guilty pleasure (it’s a self esteem machine)

Note: This is a guest post written by my little sister Julia, a first-year student at Missouri State University. She doesn’t know what she wants to study, but we accept her as a member of our family anyway. Go visit her Twitter @yooliakovach.

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This is a photo of us from a wedding back in June. It is an incredibly strange photo because (1) both of us are bordering on tan and (2) we’re not making idiotic faces or trying to make the other one look awful. Très sophistiquées.

I am obsessed with America’s Next Top Model. I also received top scores on my International Baccalureate diploma, a high ACT score, and an I.Q. that my parents never officially told me because as a child I had a tendency to brag. This last sentence was not written with the intention of bragging, but of proving a point: I am an academic who eats up shallow reality television.

I also openly admit to loving pop music and being materialistic to an embarrassing extent. Although I understand the social implications and problems of a show like America’s Next Top Model, I still cannot get enough of Tyra Banks, the show’s host. Perhaps it is because I completely separate myself from the girls on the show because I could never live with myself if I chose to be a model, but perhaps I just love the show. I love seeing high fashion designers and model coaches like Mr. and Miss Jay interact with the girls. The show makes me laugh and cry, and it appeals to all of what some academics call “shallow emotions.”

Cycle 16 models. Proof that models look like delicate dolls, always.

Cycle 16 models. Proof that models look like delicate dolls, always.

Intellectuals have surrounded me the last four years of my life. My high school was something of a private school within a public school. There were a few people who rolled their eyes at the academic value of the International Baccalureate program, but most people in the program took education very seriously. Even though I do read the classics and am a strong academic, I admit to loving media that my high school classmates would look at twice. Many classmates felt the pressure to impress one another with bits of knowledge or their reading lists, and this attitude persists among academic social circles.

Perhaps this is from where the term “guilty pleasure” emerges. I used to believe that I had to impress people with my intelligence, so I called many things that I truly liked my “guilty pleasures.” My guilty pleasure list was so long that it could wrap around the Earth twice. It wasn’t until I realized that it was okay to like “shallow” things that I learned to be more comfortable with myself. I dance to Ke$ha at parties and I have the most fun out of anyone there, because I’m not pretending to hate the music. I watch America’s Next Top Model, and I am able to simply be a girl and embrace what makes girls amazing. I do, however, still feel the need to defend my love of the show because of some of issues that arise around it.

I am a feminist, because if those who are living, breathing humans are not feminists, then they are also a living, breathing problem. Some might say it is not very empowering of me to watch ANTM, but I disagree. The women on the show are thin, but many of them choose to be this way because they yearn to be in the modeling industry, where they know this is how they must look. The show addresses eating disorders, with Tyra constantly making sure the girls’ eating habits are healthy. Tyra is very defensive of the “plus size” models that are, in actuality, perfectly healthy sized girls. Some judges are too engulfed by the modeling industry to accept the larger girls by constantly claiming that “they’re not high fashion,” but Tyra always retaliates aggressively.

This show may be saying to girls who are healthy sizes that they are “plus size,” but that is also what the media constantly bombards girls with in the first place. The viewer must separate herself from the show and say, “these girls are not reality, the modeling industry is not reality, and they are choosing the modeling industry.” I also love that Tyra promotes women of color on the show–by the third cycle the top two contestants were both African American women. There are Indian, Hispanic, and Asian women represented as well. I do not view the show as harmful to women, but actually more empowering to them, as long as they separate themselves from the women who are driving themselves for the prize. This is not to mention that the show is not just for girls, because this is another stereotype set by society: only girls can like shows about modeling, fashion, and makeup. My boyfriend watches the show with me and cannot get enough. He thinks the girls are hilarious and loves Tyra to pieces.

Tyra looking fierce on her Instagram selfie game.

Tyra looking fierce on her Instagram selfie game.

Perhaps my bias for the show comes from the confidence it has given me. I know I could never be a part of the modeling industry even if I lost weight, because I am 5’2” (although rumor has it that in upcoming cycles there are petite models – I’m only on cycle four) but the show has truly made me feel beautiful. Tyra picks girls with unique features, with faces in which you might not expect to see a top model. However, she teaches them to love the way they look. I learned from this show that beauty is not just high cheekbones and a cute button nose. In fact, the girls who are more stereotypically beautiful often get eliminated first. Living in the Midwest, I find this important to remember. I have a very unique face, and because of ANTM, I know it is beautiful. I stand out, and girls who stand out, who are unique, must realize that they truly are as beautiful as the supposedly “picture perfect” girls who the common public love. Unique girls have something to them, even beyond their faces–perhaps their past insecurities have helped them build character.

There is still a lot of criticism about ANTM (who just recently introduced male models to the running – I am dying of excitement) and the modeling industry in general. I do believe that the modeling industry should change completely; that girls of a healthy size should be used to represent females, and that many of the photos that are taken are extremely misogynistic. ANTM does not represent this side of the world of modeling, and is simply there for our entertainment. I also believe that Tyra teaches the girls on the show how to be strong and healthy women and to respect themselves. The moment I see a hint of misogyny on the show, I will stop watching. I have not yet and at this point I do not feel guilty for enjoying it.

jazz age january: “how it feels to be colored me,” zora neale hurston

For a book considered to be the pinnacle of literary representation for the Jazz Age, the The Great Gatsby mentions African Americans once:

“As we crossed Blackwell’s Island, a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish Negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.”

Jenna Bond writes about this noticeably lacking black population in The Great Gatsby in this article; she mentions how significant this absence is in stories from the Roaring ’20s, especially considering the Harlem Renaissance and its cultural influence. We’ve branded the 1920s the Jazz Age, named after a form of music with uniquely African American roots, but there’s almost no representation of the back population in canonical early 20th-century culture.

“But that was just the reality of the situation during that time,” you might say with a shrug. “Minorities were marginalized. It’s not great, but that’s history.”

Well, Imaginary Nonchalant 1920s Cultural Scholar, what if we changed the way we narrate history, adjusted the lens through which we examine it? Let me direct you to Atane Ofiaja, a Nigerian writer and photographer living in New York. He wrote on his Tumblr about the pervasive systemic appropriation of black music and dancing in the first half of the twentieth century. The Charleston, one of the flappers’ most famous dances, was lifted from the Juba, a dance with West African roots that was secretly performed in the American South. Moreover, according to Ofiaja:

With regards to the flappers, apart from Josephine Baker, they also liberally borrowed from black vaudeville performers. They would copy dance moves from black performers, and then introduce it as their own. Many dances attributed to whites are from black vaudeville performers who were forced to perform on the chitlin’ circuit because of segregation and Jim Crow laws.

Josephine Baker,by the way, left the U.S. for Europe because, according to her, “I have walked into the palaces of kings and queens… but I could not walk into a hotel in America and get a cup of coffee, and that made me mad.”

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Josephine Baker in The Siren of the Tropics (1927): quelle femme!

It’s called the Jazz Age, yet the original jazz musicians and dancers become footnotes or French citizens because of race.

With this in mind, when I sat down to list the pieces of literature included in my Jazz Age January collection, first on the list was “How it Feels to be Colored Me,” by Zora Neale Hurston. Sure, it’s an essay instead of a book, but since Hurston’s birthday was Tuesday (and commemorated by  Ye Honorable Google), and because the essay was published in 1928, I decided that it was an apt choice.

zora neale hurston2

Zora Neale Hurston in a photo that probably wasn’t posed at all.

“Colored Me” may be an essay, but it’s not stuffy, boring, nor difficult to read. It’s  actually quite fun because Hurston’s got wit; her words are dripping-in-sass funny.

Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.

Aside from the humor, the essay is also an incredibly meaningful look at race (gender, too–remember, black women are doubly marginalized). Hurston understands her blackness as part of a much larger relational construct; in other words, after having grown up in an all-black town, she is not aware of her skin color until she enters the society of the white majority. Her blackness is entirely dependent on others’ whiteness.

So Hurston recognizes the political construct of race, but she isn’t content to simply point it out. She also turns the power dynamics of this difference on its head.

Sometimes it is the other way around… when I sit in the drafty basement that is The New World Cabaret with a white person, my color comes.
Music. The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched [the white man]. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us. He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored.

In The New World Cabaret, a popular night club in Harlem in the 1920s, the white man becomes the minority while Hurston is a part of the majority. By flipping this relationship, Hurston plays with racial differences that seem locked into place, but that have really been dictated by those in power, those who benefit from racism.

In fact, Hurston doesn’t just reverse the construct. At one point, she rejects it all together.

The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.

The eternal feminine, huh? Bow down.

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jazz age january: hello dolls

Remember those high hopes we had for Baz Luhrmann’s cinematic version of The Great Gatsby? Leonardo DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan were cast as Gatsby and Daisy, Jay-Z’s soundtrack was brilliant, and the trailer was absolutely glittering.

As it happens, the film wasn’t half as good as the two-minute trailer. So it goes.

Either way, my friends and I were excited by the pre-Gatsby buildup, and we planned a Jazz Age party for the movie release. Please don’t give me that “you’re-totally-missing-the-point-of-the-book”; the author is dead, darlings, and even if the parties drowning in gold, jazz, and flappers were extravagant shows of the emptiness of life,  I was more interested in the aesthetic of the 1920s than the moralism of The Great Gatsby anyway.

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Austin and Tara at the party in May, featuring gin and tonic. Photo by Cassie (click on the photo, visit her twitter)

The truth is, I’m fascinated by the Jazz Age. I’m a materialist in every sense of the word: I’m aware of the economic and material transformation of the 1920s, and I’m especially interested in the changes occurring within social classes. I seem to have been born with a mission to overthrow (read: resent) Old Money. But I’m also consumed with materialism–I love the idea of more, proliferation, larger than life, not gilded but gold, things. It’s contradictory, I know. But I am large. I contain multitudes. I am Walt Whitman.

Either way, it’s a paradox that fits quite well in the ethos of the 1920s, so I plan to participate in the Jazz Age January challenge, in which I’ll be blogging about different literary works from the Roarin’ 20s.

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Jillian, me, and Elliott. The good old days, when I was a blonde. Why does it look so different from the photo above? Because it was taken with my old painfully cheap camera and I had to put another VSCOcam filter on it for necessity’s sake.

I only learned about the Jazz Age January Challenge today, but I’m determined to make it great. In honor of Zora Neale Hurston’s birthday, I’ll begin with her works this week, and we’ll see about the rest of the month. You think F. Scott Fitzgerald kept an itinerary? Ha! (Actually, I have no idea.)

Ciao, all.

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a real phony

I planned to wait until warmer weather to drive to a bookstore and buy Truman Capote’s novella Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but as it happens, I had already dusted the snow off of my car at 7:30 a.m. in -27 degree windchill (in Fahrenheit) and then survived a whole day at work on what is surely the most bitter Monday of 2014, so I thought “who’s afraid of the cold, anyway?” and bought Breakfast at Tiffany’s straight after work.

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It was published in 1958, three years before the Hollywood film was released, and takes place in 1943, during World War II. It’s 87 pages long, a fairly quick read. I enjoyed it, I think, more than the film in very particular ways. Mr. Yunioshi, the Japanese landlord, hardly had a role, and given the historical context, I’m surprised that Capote included a Japanese person at all (you know, because of the whole at-war-with-each-other thing). Of course, Capote isn’t the type of author who would avoid characters of difference. He was openly gay in the 1950s, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s includes more overt conversations about homosexuality than it does about Holly’s identity as a call girl. Holly shares her thoughts with the narrator on living with her old lesbian roommate:

Of course people couldn’t help but think I must be a bit of a dyke myself. And of course I am. Everyone is: a bit. So what That never discouraged a man yet, in fact it seems to goad them on.

Despite any forward thinking in terms of sexuality, though, the book also resorts to the occasional but casual ableist or racial slur, such as “retarded” or “nigger.” It’s the sort of thing that makes me cringe, but, as I discussed in my last post, art should be considered as a product of its time, and I still struggle to conceptualize what this means for literature.

There’s no grand speech at the end, no embrace between Holly and the narrator representing eternal love or happily ever after. Holly continues to search in manner that some today would dismiss as “gold-digging.” I’d rather avoid the phrase, which is absolutely packed with moral conviction. I’m not Good enough to bestow such judgment, and besides, although the many men are means to money, the money is more of a means to an end. I’m not sure what that end is, and it’s just as nebulous to Holly, I think. Before she disappears in the taxi cab, some of her last words are, “I’m very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what’s yours until you’ve thrown it away.”

Before, in the novel, she tells the narrator where she feels most at peace:

What I’ve found does the most good is just to get into the taxi and go to Tiffany’s. It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, the lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets. If I could find a real-life place like Tiffany’s, then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name.

Perhaps for Holly, there is no real place like Tiffany’s, and there’s the rub: it’s an out-of-reach place, perhaps real for people born into money, but perpetually a fantasy for her. Admittedly, I don’t have a solid conclusion on this. When I’ve got the case of the mean reds, I drive to the Kansas City International Airport and watch the planes. My life is a glaringly obvious metaphor, it seems, but assigning meaning to it (adventure, escape, travel, wanderlust) is just too easy, too self-evident. I want nuance. I bet Holly does too.

Another point of comparison: Holly speaks exactly how I think. If you were to listen to my inner monologue it would be full of run-on sentences and italics and “ands” and parentheses and the most common phrase is “goddamn” with random insertions of French words (“quel rat” and “merde,” especially), but I’ve been taught to avoid writing like this throughout my entire education. So I suppose I’ll try to avoid it on this blog too, but as you can tell, I haven’t quite been succeeding.

A real phony, you know?

so what about breakfast at tiffany’s?

In case you’ve failed to look outside your window today, I’ll update you: snow. If you live in the Northern hemisphere, there’s a 96% chance that there is currently snow on the ground. (Sure I made that statistic up on the spot, but this is the Internet. I’m allowed to.) I’ve heard that there are some people who enjoy the snow, but I haven’t witnessed this madness myself for about two years. The rest of us, I’m guessing, are keeping warm inside by way of our Netflix accounts.

Netflix recently added several films to their collection for 2014, so I decided to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It’s a Hollywood classic, or so I’ve been told, by people who stare at me with their eyes bulging in disbelief. “You’ve never watched it? You need to, Kasia. It has Audrey Hepburn. Classic film. Watch it. Watch it.” I knew that Audrey Hepburn’s beehive haircut and black dress are iconic, and this was reason enough for me. So I watched it.

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I was left with mixed feelings about the film. I enjoyed it so much on a visceral and aesthetic level, but I cringed at the grotesque depiction of the Japanese landlord and was disappointed that the resolution bowed into more conservative cultural norms of 1961.

Mr. Yunioshi was played by Mickey Rooney, a well-respected comedic actor during this time. Rooney was white, but his character was a Japanese man. In order to depict this caricature of a Japanese person, he wore makeup and a prosthetic mouthpiece to change his features. He spoke with an exaggerated ‘rrr’ in every word, and there were hints of perversion, as when he hoped to have Holly Golightly in his apartment for a private photo shoot. A 1961 review in the New York Times concluded that “Mickey Rooney’s bucktoothed, myopic Japanese is broadly exotic.”

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Contextualizing the film historically is important, of course. It was made about 15 years after the Second World War, when the Japanese in America were sent to internment camps. This doesn’t excuse this disturbing brand of racism for humor’s sake by any means, but it does raise questions about art as a product of its time. I’m still struggling to understand the dynamics of this cause-effect relationship between culture and representations of culture. Does the historical context of an art piece somehow absolve or justifiably explain the bigoted parts of the dominant culture during that time, or is the art piece at fault of actively perpetuating racism?

The ending also left me uneasy. (Note: spoilers follow. If spoilers count as a thing for a movie made 53 years ago.) Holly Golightly had such a grand speech in that New York City taxi cab: “I’m like cat here, a no-name slob. We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us. We don’t even belong to each other.” But the film ended with her running back into the embrace of Mr. Fred-or-Paul-Valjack, so I suppose a woman in mid-century America really couldn’t belong to nobody.

Despite these notes, the dialogue in the film was the kind that I mull over in my head for days, the kind that I put on repeat when I’m bored at work because those little snippets of conversation cheer me right up.

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As soon as this horrible snow melts, I plan on driving to Prospero’s Books to find the original novel by Truman Capote. In Cold Blood is one of my favorite books, so I expect to enjoy Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and I hope that the novel will be markedly different from the Hollywood-ized version in film.