So, yesterday, when I was home sick with “womyn’s troubles”*, I attempted to watch Hemingway & Gellhorn, HBO’s new movie about Clive Owen and Nicole Kidman wanting Golden Globes for slumming it in a TV movie.
It was very pretty, but it was too long. I just got tired of watching Clive Owen not be Corey Stoll after a while. Also, I feel like the movie made being a war correspondent look too glamorous. I’m not trying to suggest that young female writers such as myself shouldn’t aspire to write about more than puppies and feminism on 30 Rock and Ryan Gosling, but I don’t think that the Spanish Civil War was a big hotel party next to a war zone wherein Ernest Hemingway fucks you for the first time while mortars go off outside your window. That just seems...I feel like...it’s got to be more work than just flirting with hot soldiers and being horrified when peasants try to sell you the fur coats of the dead. Right? I should not be sitting in my pajamas thinking, “Yeah, Kabul…I could easily party there and meet lots of hot guys and then write about it for a newspaper.” Which is what I was doing yesterday while watching this film. Well, watching the first hour and a half of this film.
What I’m trying to say is that Martha Gellhorn was probably way more badass than HBO depicted and I wish there was more of her being a badass.
Also, who invited Lars Ulrich to be in this movie? Lars Ulrich is in this movie.
Oh! The best part of this movie is when Pauline Hemingway starts throwing antelope busts at Hemingway and suggests that she’s been lying to the world by telling people that Hemingway had a bigger penis than F. Scott Fitzgerald. That was well done in a completely bizarre way.
I’ll try to finish this movie this weekend. Maybe the last hour has some amazing revelations about F. Scott Fitzgerald’s penis.
*If you spell “women’s troubles” with a “y”, it makes lying in bed with horrendous cramps all day sound mystical and mythic.