Get to Know Lisa Rosman Through Her Various Works

The Snow Globe of ‘Joy’

“Joy,” David O. Russell’s latest, is not an adaptation, though it would have benefited from being one. Based on the story of Joy Mangano, the real-life woman who invented the Miracle Mop and became a major entrepreneur on the QVC network, it is co-written by Annie Mumolo and Russell, who has said that he believes “strong women are the key to great cinema.” Certainly he puts his money where his mouth is. Even in his male-centric films like “The Fighter,” strong women run the show. But Mangano’s can-do spirit is somewhat muted by this muddle of a melodrama, which swings tonally between a Pedro Almodóvar-inflected telenovella, a 1990s update of “You Can’t Take It With You,” and a Preston Sturges comedy on a cutting-room floor. An antecedent memoir might have provided much-needed signposts.

Jennifer Lawrence plays Mangano, which goes a long way toward cutting through the fog. Not since Julia Roberts has Hollywood found itself such a bright light, and Lawrence comes with the added benefit of being a strong actress who, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, has already shed any fear of un-likeability; she seems to take more cues from 1940s screwball dames than her less self-possessed contemporaries. As Mangano, she channels the weary brassiness of a woman who’s been soldiering her family’s burdens since before she was an adult. She even speaks in the clipped tones of a Barbara Stanwyck or Irene Dunne. (No vocal fry for this millennial.) Continue Reading →

‘45 Years’: Rampling’s Many Looks

“45 Years” opens with a sixty-something woman walking briskly along an English country path. It is a grayish morning but not an unappealing one, and she is humming “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” as she walks her dog on a leash. The song proves prescient: She greets her postman, enters her modest Norwalk home, hands the mail to her husband as he is groggily sipping his tea, and then watches her life explode, though it takes the duration of the film for her to realize what she has witnessed.

The woman is Kate (Charlotte Rampling), and her husband, Geoff (Tom Courtenay), has just received a letter stating that the body of his long-lost sweetheart has been discovered, perfectly preserved, in a Swiss glacier fifty years after she went missing on an Alpine hiking holiday the two had taken together. “It was a fissure – like a narrow crack in the rock,” says Geoff of the fault that claimed the woman’s life, but he may as well be describing the fault that will now splinter his marriage. Kate, with whom he is poised to celebrate his forty-fifth anniversary, has heard virtually nothing of this girlfriend he calls “his Katya” and for whom he has been named next of kin. Thus this film, directed and adapted by Andrew Haigh from David Constantine’s very fine short story “Under the Dam,” is a ghost story with no real ghost, not to mention an infidelity tale with no real infidelity. Continue Reading →

The Church of Mark Morris & Noels Past

Yesterday morning I woke to a clean house. This may not be a big deal to some, but because I live and work and often cook at home, and because I was not raised to be Martha Stewart (or even Erma Bombeck), things can get fairly psychotic by Friday of every week. I used to loll around the apartment the whole weekend, too oppressed by the mess to address it. Only on Sunday night would I finally lumber to my feet and grab a sponge–and then just because I couldn’t face a new week with the detritus of the last one still holding me hostage.

There was nothing especially restful about the cycle.

Something shifted in me this year. I suppose I should say, “I shifted something in me” because overall I underwent an enormous growth spurt, and it is my observation that adults only experience growth when they pursue it rather than passively await it.

The upshot is that, no matter how tired I am on Fridays now, I straighten up my house before I go to bed. It’s the least I can do for Future Lisa, who deserves to exist unfettered by the squalor of Lisa Past. So now I clean the way you’d fold a beloved child’s clothing: with concentrated fondness and a profound patience. If I want an iteration of me to thrive in the soft, sweet order for which I clamored as a little girl, I’ve resolved that I must carve out that space. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy