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March 29, 2024
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If You Ask Me: Let It Go, or My Reaction to “Frozen 2” and Existential Despair

For many years, Libby Gelman-Waxner, an assistant buyer in juniors’ activewear, moonlighted for Premiere magazine and Entertainment Weekly as the world’s most beloved and irresponsible movie critic. Now she’s been coaxed out of retirement to make her mark in online criticism, at the urging of her close personal friend, the playwright and New Yorker contributor Paul Rudnick.

Before we discuss both the state of global freedom and the overwhelming glut of our nation’s current cinematic offerings, I need to make a heartfelt statement about the most impactful trauma gripping our planet. Of course, I’m talking about the sale and disintegration of Barneys, a store that will soon exist only in my DNA. And, yes, I know that the brand was a consumerist nightmare and that the flagships had become echoing artifacts, like airless mausoleums displaying a single eighteen-thousand-dollar evening clutch. But, as a New Yorker of a certain age and shopping profile, the end of Barneys is like the loss of a family member with whom I actually enjoyed spending time; at its peak, Barneys got me. Barneys was a true New York destination, a place to schmooze, browse, and brunch, where I could visit my most cherished items and hug them until they were marked down—which is the definition of romance. And the annual warehouse sale, in its original get-your-hands-off-that-Halston chaos, could joyfully be termed the Great Jewish-American Retail Orgy.

But the world spins forward, and, as an assistant buyer of juniors’ activewear at a competing franchise, I can only offer a tear-stained salute, just as my mother did for Bonwit Teller after Trump demolished it. (The women of my family measure our life spans primarily in fallen midtown shopping meccas.)

Last week, as my daughter Jennifer and I passed by the original Barneys location, Seventeenth Street, I murmured, “That was where Nana bought a hundred-per-cent-cashmere Donna Karan cowl-neck top in almond, which loved her in a way Grandpa never could.” Jennifer begged, “Mom, tell me again about that bottle-green, kidskin Chanel motorcycle jacket at Henri Bendel—the one that made you feel better about fracking.” But I was too choked up. I assume that jacket will be the subject of an entire episode in Ken Burns’s next PBS docuseries.

But enough grief and rage, which must be reserved for examining photos of Ivanka hugging anonymous factory workers while looking over their heads to find the camera. To regain my holiday spirit, I saw “Knives Out,” a delectable romp about bloodcurdling homicide, starring Daniel Craig as a detective with the most honeyed Southern accent this side of Lindsey Graham eyeballing a handsome new Senate page. “Knives Out” concerns an unscrupulous, greedy, back-and-front-stabbing clan cooped up in a Victorian mansion. Everything about this movie promises a great time, without a quiz on climate change afterward. It features an array of stars, all itching to murder one another, including Jamie Lee Curtis as a real-estate mogul in scarlet silk, Michael Shannon as a glowering nerd, and Chris Evans as a spoiled rich boy, flinging a scarf over his topcoat—everyone gets to sneer, misbehave, and become a suspect. “Knives Out” is what used to be called a popcorn movie, but in the Trump era it can be considered a blessedly nonprescription antidepressant.

I also loved “Parasite,” a hit from the Korean director Bong Joon-ho, which proves that America doesn’t have a monopoly on blood-spattered income inequality. “Parasite” depicts the most bedrock form of Marie Kondo terror, as poor people invade a pristine modern estate and leave crumbs and fast-food wrappers everywhere. The main location is pure HGTV porn, with walk-in closets the size of Texas foyers. In terms of drool-worthy must-haves, walk-in closets are the new gourmet kitchens, spa bathrooms, and master suites. (I always love it when a show like “House Hunters” refers to a mildewy cubbyhole, with stained shag carpeting, as the “master suite.”) Barneys had in fact come to resemble one of those dreamy California Closets luxury bunkers, with each creaseless white-silk blouse granted its own acreage; it was doomed once every tech billionaire could have his or her own personal branch.

Both “Knives Out” and “Parasite” are much more fun than “Joker,” which is the Stephen Miller of comic-book movies. The film takes the title character’s backstory very seriously and keeps repeating grimy scenes of snotty people humiliating him. Onscreen, Joaquin Phoenix grunts and contorts himself in an agony of loserdom; it’s like two hours of watching Rudy Giuliani eat. My husband, Josh, loved it, insisting, “It’s about how every regular guy feels when a pretty girl walks right past him without looking up from her phone.” To which I responded, “Those girls might look up if Joaquin discovered shampoo and deodorant, or if those regular guys stopped acting as if the Joker is a real person with many dimensions, like the Winston Churchill of geeks.”

To clear my mind, and to stop focussing on the deaths of Daffy’s and Loehmann’s, stores which were among my personal superheroes, I saw “Frozen 2.” I adored the first “Frozen,” because it has a glorious, Broadway-style score, and, though the sequel is polished and professional, my mind wandered, as it often does watching Disney animated films, to the female characters’ noses. Fans are making a big hoo-ha about how the “Frozen” movies cheer sisterly friendship over Prince Charming salvation, but those sisters still have tip-tilted noses the size of Skittles. I’d love to be in the meetings at which the sisters’ body types are discussed—their nonexistent waistlines, nonthreatening breasts, and boyish hips, which could make Barbie ask Ken, “How can you even look at me? I’m a house!”

I also enjoyed the feminist princess costuming, which demands constant gown changes during moments of extreme physical distress. Elsa can turn entire landscapes into bar-mitzvah-worthy ice sculptures, such as in the first movie’s “Let It Go” number, which is accompanied by a fashion makeover, from woollen travelling outfit to form-clutching prom sparkle. In the sequel, when Elsa freezes various oceans and forests, there’s a compromise between J. Lo Vegas glam and practicality, since she seems to have added sleek spandex leggings under her dazzling floor-length skirts—all this without luggage, dry cleaning, or royal Spanx. Watching this movie is like attending Fashion Week for little girls, who want to see exactly what they’ll be wearing next Halloween. If you’re ever near Times Square, you can see sleepy toddlers, back from a matinée of the stage version, wearing their “Frozen” outfits right beside burly cosplay performers in matching, weary polyester-satin ensembles.

By the end of “Frozen 2,” Elsa and her sister, Anna, have subdivided their kingdom, teaching the valuable lesson that princesses can share a fan base. Elsa is the one with supernatural powers, but Anna is equally valued, even though she has brown hair. Both have terrifyingly large, headlight-round Disney anime eyes, like Buicks with mascara. I only wish that Elsa and Anna could have saved Barneys—which I’m hoping will become the plotline for “Frozen 3: Escape From Chapter 11,” if you ask me.

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