The New Yorker, Week of June 9-16

I had already started drafting this post when The Other A sent me a link to Anthony Lane's review of the Sex and the City movie. She knows how much I love quick-paced, clever writing - and Lane's review does not disappoint.

Even though I haven't finished reading this issue, I started to blog about it on the strength of Lane's review - and the new short story by Nabokov.

I like Lane's review because:
Between you and me, I never really liked Sex and the City, the television series. I loved watching the parade of gorgeous shoes and fabulous outfits, but when the mouths started moving, I really didn't pay attention. In fact, there's only one episode I like - A Woman's Right to Shoes - as every disgruntled repeat bridesmaid should.

(My calculations would indicate that I have spent something like $10,000-$12,000 on other people's weddings. Ugh.)

After reading the review, I felt like I have found a kindred spirit in Anthony... and that I no longer had to hide my limp enthusiasm in seeing the girly movie of the year. If it's an opportunity to get crazy with my girls and slap arms whenever some sick pair of shoes crosses the screen, then I'll do it. Otherwise, I'll be pining for the Audrey Hepburn era with Anthony.

Best writing from the Lane review:
As the release date neared, the paranoia thickened; at the screening I attended, we were asked not only to surrender our cell phones but to march through a beeping security gate, as if boarding a plane to Tel Aviv. There was even a full-body pat-down, by far the biggest turn-on of the night. Not a drop of the forthcoming plot had been leaked in advance, but I took a wild guess. “Apparently,” I said to the woman behind me in line, “some of the girls have problems with their men, break up for a while, and then get back together again.” “Oh, my God!” she cried. “How do you know?”

I like Nabokov's story because:
I love Nabokov, first of all. His words flutter and move like ribbons in the wind - his images so crisp, you see the scene immediately before your eyes. Nabokov's ability to imbue the tiniest detail with the most resplendent beauty has been an inspiration to my own writing.

I also generally love stories about people caught up in their own private universe, and discovering how their secret world will unfurl as the pages go on. Even though I saw the ending coming, my breath still got caught in my throat a little because the execution was so delicately crafted. If you don't believe me, read Natasha for yourself.

Best excerpt from the Nabokov story:
She flitted past in her rustling raincoat, hatless.
Leaning over the bannister, Wolfe glanced back at her. For an instant he caught sight from overhead of the sleek, girlish part in her hair. Still whistling, he climbed to the top floor, threw his rain-soaked briefcase on the bed, then thoroughly and satisfyingly washed and dried his hands.