After a considerable delay I’m getting around to watching the rest of my TiVo stock of Girls episodes. Hannah now works in an office with some Hispanic women and the inexplicably British girl is a nanny and meets other nannies in the park. One of them is black. So the race thing is solved. If by “solved” you mean “cool! They are meeting non-whites when they deign to play at wage slavery.”
The real problem with the show is a common problem I see a lot of writers fall prey to. And I can pretty much tell a writer’s age when I see how they deal with this one thing.
In “Girls” every character–nannies, boyfriends, secretaries, five-year olds–sounds like Leah Dunham. It’s as if I’m watching a show full of her imaginary friends, and it comes directly from the twin limitations of her age and life experience.
She’s an innately clever person and she has developed a good sense for the certain hipster rhythms of talk. The problem is that she’s so steeped in her own rhythms and point of view she hasn’t learned to listen to anybody else.
The show’s. Title is missing an apostrophe, because it really is just one Girl’s shadow play of her own headspace.