Get to Know Lisa Rosman Through Her Various Works

The Grinch Who Stole Sunrise

I can’t stand pumpkin spice anything. (I feel like this goes without saying.) I can’t stand when holiday music starts playing in November. I can’t stand holiday music period unless Otis Redding is singing it. But it kind of cracks me up when holiday festivities heat up even before Thanksgiving rolls around. Three times this week I have gotten home only hours before I normally rise, which is a fact I’d find even more fun if I weren’t a grown-up lady who still got up at 5:30 am every day. (I’m still having fun, to be clear; my cobwebs are officially being shaken out.) I think I am going to pen a song entitled “This Is How We Trick Our Circadian Rhythms.” You’ll be able to sing it to the melody of “Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly.” Fa la la la la.

The Courage of Intimacy: ‘Carol’

Walking out of “Carol,” director Todd Haynes’s newest film, I had to laugh about our need to sneer at the past no matter how much we fetishize it. Progress is elliptical, not linear, though the LGBT community can be forgiven for temporarily forgetting this fact. This year alone we’ve achieved civil rights inconceivable only decades before–when AIDS patients were treated by the government as if they’d earned their fate, and simply being gay could deny us of our legal right to work, live, find shelter, and, of course, love.

Amid this unprecedented groundswell of mainstream acceptance comes Haynes’s adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s 1952 eponymous novel about a love affair between the titular married socialite and Therese, a shopgirl twenty years her junior. Originally published under a pseudonym and with a different title, the book not only reflects the obstacles facing a lesbian couple in the mid-twentieth century but the holistic confusion facing any woman coming of age – when the world claims her body and sexuality before she’s grown comfortable with them herself. Students of queer and feminist literature have long prized the novel’s precision and defiant optimism, and for good reason. It is a quiet tour de force that remains radical today. Continue Reading →

The Church of Rosie the Riveter

Up and at’em, Abigail Adams! I spent Saturday night writing a talk I’m giving upstate this morning about a Turkish-French feminist film called “Mustang.” (Imagine “The Virgin Suicides” with a steely spine, a Black Sea setting, and a director with a penchant for female liberation rather than pink Converse.) The sun’s only been up for an hour and I’m already polishing my prose and toes with one eye on the Metro-North timetable and another on the still-waking Manhattan skyline. Trust me when I say that, given recent events, all this feels like serious second-wave glamour. (You can generally trust I am not indulging in sarcasm, a lower form of humor than knock-knock jokes.) I still haven’t had a day off in forever but am starting to lean into it. Call me Rosman the Riveter but, in the arc of lady history, a glut of work that I love reigns as the utmost of luxuries.

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