Raw, adjective: 5. crude in quality or character; not tempered or refined by art or taste
A study in contrasts:
Herein, one product with which I very much like sharing a name: Mrs. Meyer's badass Clean Day home supplies. Earth-friendly, charmingly retro, minimalist in a Berkeley kind of way, and smelling suspiciously of gardenias on my kitchen countertop.
Herein, one with which I'd very much like to disassociate forever: filmmaker Nancy Meyers, she of the sexless bourgeois middle-aged lady architectural porn films wherein bland Aryan archetypes "meet cute," wear beige turtlenecks, fall in generically-scripted love, and shack up in expensively boring mansions in the Hamptons. I believe I fondly referred to her as a "schlockmeister" the last time I so lovingly touched on her latest piece of cinema shit.
(Breathe, Rach; breathe.)
So without getting into all that again - it's such a nice morning, you know? - let me direct you to Daphne Merkin's recent NYT Magazine profile of Meyers. I suspect that Merkin shares my distaste for Meyers' generally artificial and contrived productions, but she manages to retain a faux-balanced reporter's stance while still touching on all the reasons that Meyers' work is so frustrating to anyone outside her aspirational-white-upper-class-divorced-bitter-sexless-middle-aged-lady demographic.
Read the article, promise you'll never waste another ten bucks on any Meyers production (including this latest variation featuring Streep, Baldwin and my lovey Steve Martin), and go rent something good and dirty and edgy (LaBute?) and grimy (Soderbergh?) and maybe the slightest bit criminal from your local mom-and-pop video store. You'll feel cleaner than you ever would after rolling around in 90 minutes of anesthetized Pottery Barn suburban porn.
Can Anybody Make a Movie for Women? (NYT Mag)