For a bit of classical entertainment on Sunday, I watched Georgy Girl (1966), with the incandescent Lynn Redgrave, in the title role. In the film, she's a big girl, homely and quirky. I loved her immediately. She marches to the beat of her own drum, she sings her own song, she zigs when she's supposed to zag. In the title credits, she sees her reflection in a salon window, is that what her hair looks like? Egads. She runs in and when she runs out, she's got this four foot high bee-hive. Seconds later, she's soaking her head. Enough, already.
Charlotte Rampling, her roommate, is a classic sixties beauty, and a bit of a slut as well. The two women play off each other brilliantly. Char gets preggers and Georgy falls in love with the father. They plan to live together, all three of them. Chaos ensues. But throughout the film, I'm always rooting for the fat, plain girl who wants to write her own rules. My hopes are dashed, however, it turns out, that all Georgy wants is a baby. She's a bride by the end, not married to the young guy, but rich, middle-aged James Mason. But the joy on her face is all about the baby.
That's all she really wanted. Boy, I was pissed. I felt duped and betrayed. She not only buries her own irrepressible spirit, she shovels in the dirt as well. Instead of larking about London, teaching music to little kids and kissing boys--- now she's a mother and a wife. Money and a wedding band. Will someone please write another story, another version of happily ever after.
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