Here’s two I thought worth highlighting (and yes, Liz Lemon and Don Draper cop their deserved serves as well):
It’s one thing to romanticize debauched artists who create great work — your Arthur Rimbauds, your Lou Reeds, your Henri de Toulouse-Lautrecs. But while the titular Withnail of Bruce Robinson’s 1987 dark comedy Withnail and I may aspire to be a working actor, he’s really just a lazy, manipulative alcoholic with a talent for lying. Sure, it’s easy to see why some of the cult film’s fans get such a vicarious thrill out of Withnail; he does what he wants and has perfected a certain timeless, disheveled-fop look. As
Withnail and I‘s nameless protagonist (“I”)[he’s called Marwood, I thought this was relatively common knowledge?] eventually realizes, however, this is a guy who’s more trouble than he’s worth. He might be fun to giggle at for a few hours, but you would neither want to be him nor live with him.
Before there were two movies, Sex and the City tours of Manhattan, and characters on new HBO shows who are obsessed with characters on that older HBO show [not to mention an upcoming prequel series, ugh], there was simply a TV series earning critical praise — and a vocal following — for its frank depictions of women’s sex lives (and interminable conversations about same). But let’s be honest: Even before Carrie Bradshaw was a couture-draped monster on a culturally insensitive tear across the Middle East, she was a pretty poor role model. For one thing, she was obsessed with — and ended up marrying! — a man who spent years treating her terribly. Then there’s the fact that she’s terrible with money. (How many times did she prioritize $800 shoes over basic human necessities?) And that brings us to perhaps the most offensive thing about Carrie Bradshaw: If her personal relationships and the hackneyed questions she so passionately types out are any indication, she’s really got no business writing about sex and love, ever.