First. a dream job: Sally Mintz, a career gal from the Midwest, writes for "The Night Owl," a weekly, late-night sketch comedy show with musical guests known by its acronym (TNO), just like its "live from New York" inspiration.
Hearing the famous line never failed to release something in me, some ecstasy that was like lifting the tab on a soda can, or maybe like having an orgasm, or maybe like knowing I’d have an orgasm in the near future—some excitement and anticipation and nervousness and delight. The essential thing I’d failed to understand about TNO before working there was that, even though there were flubbed lines and late camera cuts and sketches that bombed, the live part wasn’t the show’s weakness; it was its strength. And really, so was the way all the preparation had to be crammed into a week. These were the things that made us inventive and wildly ambitious, that gave the show its unpredictability and intensity and magic.
Sally's ideas for internet dog searches are as amusing as anything I've ever seen on SNL but her humor, like her spiky personality, more typically has an edge. When Noah Webster, a hunky singer/songwriter does double-duty as host and musical guest, Sally pitches a skit idea asking how come ordinary guys (i.e. not especially attractive) often manage to snare gorgeous female celebrities while the reverse almost never happens. Turns out she's on a roll: not only does the Lorne Michaels stand-in approve of the pitch, he chooses two of Sally's other ideas for the same show, too, a personal best, even though a last-minute complication forces the cancellation of "The Danny Horst Rule," named for her about-to-be-unlucky-in-love office mate. My one brief bid at writing acclaim occurred in high school, during an enriched English class when Mr. LaGrone had been given us the highly unusual assignment of producing a satire on 1970 American life for the general assembly. When I declared "Mom ran off with Colonel Sanders because he likes big breasts," it got the biggest laugh in spite of my shy delivery.
Second, insecurity: During their very intense work week, Sally falls head-over-heels for Noah even though she so disdained "Making Love in July," his earliest, biggest hit that she's never paid much attention to his other work. A divorced Indigo Girls-girl, she relies on a friend with benefits who sends her unsolicited dick pics to satisfy her physical needs. Unlike her male colleagues, Sally finds porn "narratively unsatisfying;" her week-long professional relationship with Noah is anything but. Sittenfeld steeps it in well-researched detail with a flair for eroticism that transcends mere heterosexual attraction. But Sally constantly second-guesses her own appeal (she had me with a hamster tattoo anecdote), and ends up sabotaging a potential kiss at an after party with a snarky remark about Noah's reputed fondness for models.
Third, being chosen: If not for the pandemic, Sally no doubt would always remember Noah as the "one who got away." But after a nasty bout with covid, he e-mails her out of the blue, initiating an intense correspondence/courtship from across the country.
Obviously, endlessly emailing someone before meeting is a waste of time, but I do still wonder whether a person’s writing self is their realest self, their fakest self, or just a different self than their in-the-world self? Or maybe emailing with someone a lot before meeting is ill-advised not because the other person is real or fake but because there inevitably will be a discrepancy between your idea of them and the reality.
If only I'd read that last sentence in 1996, when "Kill Barbie" and I met through Firefly, an internet community that brought people together based on their taste in music. We bonded over the Pet Shop Boys and exchanged confessional e-mails at a rapid clip for a couple of months before business travel to south Florida gave us a chance to meet in person. The venue he selected in South Beach was so dark and gloomy that it took no more than a glance at him sitting hunched over, bearded at the bar, nursing a drink, to become a ghost (like I said earlier, shallow depths).
Sittenfeld offers pretty persuasive evidence that a person's writing self actually is their best self. Both Sally and Noah recall enough about each other that they have a jumping off point from which to build a virtual relationship that can survive the revelation of their vulnerabilities and mistakes in a way that would be much more difficult face-to-face, or at least for two actual people not so talented as Sittenfeld in expressing themselves. It's my favorite part of the book, a very meta expression of romance that could never work in a film or television adaptation because it's all happening in the characters' minds, with date and time stamps providing the only indication of the outside world.
Finally, a happy ending. If the "IRL" final section is less convincing, it's not because Sittenfeld isn't hitting all the right notes in her set-up. She again makes believable use of the pandemic, if one far removed from the experience of most people; in fact, she pretty much anticipates this reader's minor objections when Noah unexpectedly serenades Sally in front of the neighbors next door to her childhood home, the kind of "grand gesture" that romantic comedies employ and one the reunited couple have recently dissected in person:
I once heard a smart person point out that it’s hard to determine where the dividing line is between cheesiness and acceptable emotional extravagance.
He grinned again. “I didn’t tell you at the time, but I know exactly where the line is. When it’s happening to other people, it’s cheesy. When it’s happening to you, it’s wonderful.
Maybe I should have been reading Harlequin romances all along. Or maybe not. The crash that followed the exhilarating high of finishing Romantic Comedy felt almost like the enervating end of an actual fling. Or, to paraphrase the TNO heel who nearly scarred Sally for life by rebuffing her affection, I've confused reading Sittenfeld's convincing novel with experiencing real love.
No comments:
Post a Comment