"Those grown old, who have had the youth bled from them by the jagged edged winds of winter, know sorrowfully that Indian summer is a sham to be met with hard-eyed cynicism."-- Grace Metalious, Peyton Place
Even those lacking a certain artworld diction might find the works of Veronika Gronnegaard trivial in an otherwise engaging drama from Maya IIsoe, who, whether she intended it or not,shows the progressive spectrum is exhausted. Veronika did what she wanted sexually, whether or not she could tell that her first husband was a dangerous sexual libertine, and then the spears thrust outward.
Another flag: Frederick's wife sleeps with her brother-in-law. Credible, but even for Scandinavian tendencies to repress, how could anyone's marriage survive such an indiscretion? In the difference between my leonine ideals of a good man, and my ex, the imbecile half-wit Frank, I suspect love is closer to the constant fighting in which Frank and I engage, but if he fucked my sister, I write this dead pan-- the man would be dead, and I mean that. [He is safe, as Stephanie has her own problems.] So, while the exchange between the actors as husband and wife seems consistently Protestant, and buried below the surface, Sliveg's [sic] declaration that what she did was unforgivable usually proceeds a death knell of some sort.
Just a note about my ex: I am not fair to him, and only continue the volley because I have absolutely no support other than a misogynist moron. I am basically dead to the man, yet we still fight like Raymond's parents, on the sitcom, and it does make me laugh, that whatever I dish to the Bronx bastard, he throws it right back.
I'm a writer.
That's no excuse.
He has no idea.
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