Vague suppositions about her personality and its possible disorders are far from satisfactory.
This has been an exercise in intense frustration.
I’ve been speculating anyway, intermittently, ever since her story was debunked - speculating about why she told the story in the first place. Speculation is pointless when information is so scant. But then what was she doing at a frat party, hanging out with a frat guy? I was the type of teenager who liked the Pre-Raphaelites, and Heathers. I still have the textbook, one of those volumes in Taschen’s Basic Genre series, Pre-Raphaelites. Has Jackie ever seen the painting? It’s a famous work, and a staple of undergrad art-history classes, which is how I first encountered it. I wonder if the model here could be Ophelia as rendered by John Everett Millais: a young woman supine, long tresses floating. We can picture the strands - “long, dark, wavy” - outspread all around her. A man’s body “barrels into her, tripping her backward.” Someone, we’re told, is kneeling on her hair. The shards enchant and wound and scintillate, like the Snow Queen’s icy darts. That’s the place where the narrative strains hardest against realism, wanting to move into another register altogether. But most of all, it’s the table, the crystalline pyrotechnics of its shattering. The dark chamber, the silhouetted attackers, gathering close. You read it and thought: Unbelievable! And in retrospect, the failures of its naturalism seem so clear. The same is true of Jackie’s story, which is why the article caused such an uproar in the first place. The whole movie has that stylized, magical quality. The scene opens with a shot of Heather asleep, not lying down but reclining, in a satin-draped bower. 1 issues her dying croak - Corn nuts! - and then falls, smashing her own glass table. It reminds me of the scene in Heathers where Heather No. R ereading the story now, the detail I keep returning to is the broken coffee table, the shards of glass.
0 kommentar(er)
