Take a photo of a barcode or cover
sbmundy 's review for:
You're on an Airplane: A Self-Mythologizing Memoir
by Parker Posey
Before I start, I wanna say much of my criticism has been echoed already by previous reviewers. I broke a cardinal rule for myself— 80 pages into PP’s memoir, curiosity bested me and I read deep into reviews. Oh, boy.
The form and style of her memoir does not bother me— in fact, there’s the 2 stars! While it does remain disjointed, PP has a sort of stone dry humor that pairs well with bursts of Dada thought trains. I actually enjoy it, and in the first two chapters, found myself laughing out loud. The way she reacted to her wrap pants falling down in public is probably how I’d handle the same situation. I was going to love this book!
Well, PP’s charm shrivels up fast. Where her aloofness fades out, her stories really paint her as a blustery, eccentric privileged woman who has no self-awareness in her interactions with others. I know women like PP. It ain’t cute. I’d hate to serve her at my restaurant. I find myself wishing she’d write about something else. Then she does.
Okay: I don’t necessarily think all artists hold responsibility to be socio-political purists in all their work. But... HOW are you gonna publish a memoir in 2018 and write in hazy, quasi-romantic flourish about Louis CK and Woody Allen? Would your memoir be lacking if you HADN’T felt compelled to do so? These little micro-moments (“Louie would squeeze past me and gently put his hands on me, like a good dad”; in referring to Woody’s announcement of love for his adopted daughter on 60 Minutes: “it could be an aria from an opera, couldn’t it?”) are either too tone-deaf to swallow, or, purposefully apologist. In short: ew.
That’s not even getting into the very faint and off-kilter cultural fetishism (that whole chapter on Ayurveda) and awkward racial implications (her “Paw Paw” rubbing the little African-American boy’s head for good luck—wtf?! And she only refers to him as her family’s pet name Smokey? Yikes).
Dammit, Parker Posey. I do not quit books, but I quit this one and am selling it back to my local resale shop. I know a lot of people admire her and have their PP crushes, but save yourself the disappointment.
The form and style of her memoir does not bother me— in fact, there’s the 2 stars! While it does remain disjointed, PP has a sort of stone dry humor that pairs well with bursts of Dada thought trains. I actually enjoy it, and in the first two chapters, found myself laughing out loud. The way she reacted to her wrap pants falling down in public is probably how I’d handle the same situation. I was going to love this book!
Well, PP’s charm shrivels up fast. Where her aloofness fades out, her stories really paint her as a blustery, eccentric privileged woman who has no self-awareness in her interactions with others. I know women like PP. It ain’t cute. I’d hate to serve her at my restaurant. I find myself wishing she’d write about something else. Then she does.
Okay: I don’t necessarily think all artists hold responsibility to be socio-political purists in all their work. But... HOW are you gonna publish a memoir in 2018 and write in hazy, quasi-romantic flourish about Louis CK and Woody Allen? Would your memoir be lacking if you HADN’T felt compelled to do so? These little micro-moments (“Louie would squeeze past me and gently put his hands on me, like a good dad”; in referring to Woody’s announcement of love for his adopted daughter on 60 Minutes: “it could be an aria from an opera, couldn’t it?”) are either too tone-deaf to swallow, or, purposefully apologist. In short: ew.
That’s not even getting into the very faint and off-kilter cultural fetishism (that whole chapter on Ayurveda) and awkward racial implications (her “Paw Paw” rubbing the little African-American boy’s head for good luck—wtf?! And she only refers to him as her family’s pet name Smokey? Yikes).
Dammit, Parker Posey. I do not quit books, but I quit this one and am selling it back to my local resale shop. I know a lot of people admire her and have their PP crushes, but save yourself the disappointment.