A bit of a rant, really

I saw "Julie + Julia" today and liked half of it. Julia Child and her husband Paul wrote letters and much of the screenplay was based on a book that drew from that correspondence -- to friends, to family and each other. I think that even if the bulk of their lives had been set in the Internet age, they would have been slipping those thin papers into white and blue envelopes stamped Par Avion and sending them off across the ocean.

I didn't like the Julie Powell part. Not because it was so self-indulgent, not because she was ridiculously whiny about turning 30 (alert: your life doesn't end) and not even because she wasn't professionally (or even quasi-professionally) trained -- but because the character she showed us -- both via Nora Ephron's screenplay and her book (which I read) was simply unlikeable. I never saw the spark, the fire or the love. And yes, I cheered inside as she lay crying on the bed, bitching to her husband (that "saint" that she later cheated on) that her adopted idol Julia Child, when asked about the project, didn't have kind words for it. This cooking blog full of her cyber-complaining about how hard it was to cook the French recipes that took Julia eight years to perfect, bent over stoves and tables that her frame was a good eight inches too large for as she and Paul were shipped around the world. As Julie bawled about how hurt she was that Julia wasn't bowled over with the emulation, all I could think was"Boo-fucking-hoo."

Julia didn't have big, angry meltdowns. She didn't toss food disasters at her beloved husband's head. She wasn't full of complaints and desires for fame and adoration to keep up with her peers. She just displayed unfailing love for everyone around her and devotion to her passion: food. And how did she develop the friendship that would turn into the publishing connection that brought "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" to the world? Well, she wrote a letter, of course.