David Wnendt’s Wetlands, based on Charlotte Roche’s novel, asks a simple, revealing question of audiences, one that’s never been asked quite so specifically: “How many depictions of anal fissures are you willing to allow in your charming romantic comedy?”
Think hard about this.
I have never seen a full episode of Girls.
I say this at the outset not to demonstrate my hipness or lack thereof, but as a statement of fact that’s relevant here.
Online or in print, virtually all discussions about the work of Lena Dunham – noted screenwriter/director/actress/TV star/author/astronaut (probably) – seem to end up being about Dunham herself.