When I were a lass, film premieres didn’t really exist.
I’m kind of glad they didn’t, too. I can’t help but feel the lure of the original three Star Wars films, which has remained constant throughout my life, was augmented by the inflexibility of the stories and the character roles. They existed within the films, and my job was to recreate them as faithfully as possible within the constraints of a deep pile bedroom carpet.
I don’t want anyone who knows me – whether in real life, via social media or even just as a distant shape in cyberspace – to say they haven’t heard about this or haven’t had the opportunity to watch it.
If you choose not to watch it, that’s fine. That choice is part of the wider principle that Jon Stewart is articulating in this monologue and one I will defend to the best of my abilities.
I had a hardback book about it, passages of which I could recite verbatim, and a National Geographic video of Robert Ballard’s 1985 expedition to locate the wreck, which I watched until the modern day footage was as grainy as the images they took from the bottom of the Atlantic.
Suffice to say, after the novelty of a seven-year-old babbling on about impact zones, deep sea pressure changes and steel corrosion had worn off, my parents started locking me in my bedroom when we had guests.
You’d imagine that Kathleen Hanna, founding member of the riot-grrl movement, ardent feminist and lead singer of ground breaking bands such as Bikini Kill, Le Tigre and The Julie Ruin would have little time for Miley Cyrus.
After all, isn’t Cyrus the antithesis of all that Hanna stands for? Living proof that the world at large has considered her message and summarily rejected it, preferring to keep its female pop stars constrained by the twin shackles of sexual availability and the male gaze?