Baby sneezes/Mommy pleases/Daddy breezes in-- Carly Simon
Unlike the recording artist Joni Mitchell, Carly is less equidistant, richer but more shallow in timbre, with an armor piercing poignancy that made me cry when Heartburn's title track played. What is the use of crying at this point, caught in the vectors between spinsterhood and the lucky escape from domestic discord?
One can see the studio appeal in Nora Ephron's bittersweet, if superficial, Heartburn tale of growing disenchantment. Nicholson's rage is seasoned into mid-course, and Streep reprises her character in Kramer, here the conflict less about self-discovery, and more about skepticism, a leonine skepticism. This movie is amphibious with its mediocrity, capturing something intangibly lost about the late Reagan era, something we cannot go back to again, something we might have held onto a little longer if Bill Clinton had not been an irrepressible skirt chaser, his erections distracting us from more lethal national traumas to come.
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