No person alive can really resist the charm of Audrey Hepburn. She’s slim, before it was stylish, deep and flighty all at the same time. The quintessential perfect girl. She’s the Rorschach test for every man.
But, for once, I pretended to be a writer and watched the infinitely girlish Breakfast at Tiffany’s with a single question: What in the hell was Truman Capote thinking, writing about a hooker and a kept (wannabe writer) man?
Anti-Japanese racism aside, I still get how this movie is still a classic. Even when it is about a delusional, off-her-rocker escort with a psuedo-philosophy created to justify her own immoral existence. And Capote made us love her.
Now that’s good writing.