Remember in my good old days when I’d tenuously link something I’d watched to a book I’d read, with almost no shame about how little they actually correlated?
Well, get ready for a humdinger. It’s an old book and a new film - should they be in the same newsletter? Upgrade and find out. Sorry, this Barbie has bills.
The film is Barbie, of course it is, you knew it would be. Maybe you hoped it wouldn’t be, but perhaps, in light of a less obvious book recommendation to accompany it, you’ll allow it.
The book is Wreath for the Enemy by Pamela Frankau. They don’t seem to have much in common, there isn’t an immediate connection I can think of to examine. But they both brought me that specific joy that something so comfortable in its own strange form can bring, because it acknowledges its own container, and then revels in it. Which, without sounding like Existentialist Barbie, is all any of us can hope to do, every day, until we… find ourselves in the other type of container.
Here's what I thought about Barbie.