Hotness, Sexness, and Rife Unhappiness: An Episode Review of Girls

hbo-girls-season-2Every so often we’ll give our opinion of cultural things, like movie reviews, book reviews, and whether today’s market price of $50 for a hand job is really fiscally sound.

Last night during my usual 800 hours of Sunday night TV fare I watched the latest episode of Girls, “One Man’s Trash.” If you haven’t watched it yet or are into the Costco method of watching TV in bulk two years after the show airs, stop reading. (Hey, I feel ya, I still haven’t watched “The Wire.”) When I watch Girls I tend to roll my eyes and huff and puff and get annoyed and shout at the television things like “Marnie! Get out of that SoHo loft, that art dude’s a total DOUCHE!” and “it’s New York, for chrissakes, where the non-whiteys at?” But there’s something about the show that gets in my brain and wraps around my thoughts (much like a tape worm) in its uninhibited, self-confidently neurotic portrayal of normal people. I say people instead of women because both men and women are quickly stripped of any bravado, posturing or two-dimensional heroics to conveniently hide their terrified inner selves on this wackadoodle show.

Last night’s episode was a good example. At first, when Hannah showed her boobs within the first few minutes of exposition, I grumbled, “damn, girl must have it written into her contract to bring out the twins at least 8 times a show.” But then my friend remarked, “you know, every time they show her naked body-small boobs, big bottom-I think, she’s got a body just like mine. And I think she looks beautiful.” and I thought, well, fuck. If Lena needs to do her entire series on location at a nudist colony, so that one person may think a non-size-zero female figure looks beautiful, then have at it.

More grumbling: she immediately hooks up with and has hot sex with Patrick Wilson (hot link here). C’mon Lena, I mean I know you created, write and star in the series, but this is a bit…overindulgent, wouldn’t you say? Then, I remembered, like, every movie Woody Allen has ever written and starred in. And I shut my
mouth.

But then, just when you think you’ve tapped into Dunham’s masturbatory diary, shit gets weird. In a wacko, car-wrecked, bizarrely painful and yet beautifully poignant flame-out of their fling. It falls apart, spectacularly, not because she’s too fat and not pretty enough and so completely out of his league (not in my POV, but still a popular one), but because she is a victim of her own insane insecurities and negative self-beliefs. And how many times have I myself hid behind the convenient trap of “I’m too fat” “I’m not good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, blahblahblah” and simply sat in the corner and sulked, perpetually playing the victim, rather than truly facing up to the reality that I was just fucked up, wasn’t mature or responsible or committed enough to actually take a risk and believe someone could love and accept me, as Billy Joel says, just the way I iz? Sigh.

Anyway. I give it a thumbs up. I laughed, I cried, I ate my kettle corn.

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