I'm not proud to admit this, but there was once a time, in my single days, when I was so desperate that I agreed to take a girl on a Sunday morning date that began with brunch and ended with us at an old movie theater watching Breakfast at Tiffany's.
You don't have to know that my favorite films usually have words like "Star" and "Wars" and "Godfather" in their titles to appreciate what a tremendous concession this was on my part—what a paramount sacrifice it would be for any self-respecting guy to subject himself to the soapy, sudsy, 1961 progenitor from which all other frothy chick flicks have bubbled up.
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Why my disdain? Audrey Hepburn, as the peculiar socialite Holly Golightly, remains the pop-culture template for any woman who believes that impulsiveness and self-involvement are necessary, even admirable, qualities. And it's Holly who convinced Hollywood to mint more women like her. Had she never noshed on pastries outside that famous Fifth Avenue locale, we'd have been spared the spectacle of Julia Roberts as a $3,000-a-week "pretty woman," Thelma and Louise would never have enjoyed their aerial view of the Grand Canyon, and Elle Woods would never have gone to Harvard Law School.
Also, I'd be a much happier man today. My brunch date and I didn't last very long, but my memories of that film still endure: Hepburn's sweet performance of "Moon River" on a Manhattan fire escape; her steadfast insistence on calling George Peppard's frustrated-author character "Fred" instead of by his real name, Paul; her willingness to accept money from all manner of men, from predatory party animals to incarcerated mobsters; and my nagging sense that Holly Golightly might be the most disturbingly selfish and sinister woman in all of cinema.
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