First because of the stage, then because of cinema, spectators (including authors) have long been vulnerable to the amiable delusion of being actors, of performing their personal experience in a self-generated spotlight. In the twentieth century especially, trained by habitual moviegoing from the time of childhood, each of us has imagined a camera positioning us in artful compositions wherever we are--walking the streets, engaging with landscape, making love--until some internal censor shuts down the show. That our lives are movies cast with our selves and others has become a cliche so perdurable it has hardened into one of the few indisputable assumptions of postmodern culture. How, we sometimes ask, can we escape the inauthenticity of seeming unreal shadows of ourselves? One way is by resorting to popular movies that affirm the integrity of the self, thereby compounding our anxiety.
-Laurence Goldstein, "Coruscating Glamour": Lynda Hull and the Movies
, The Iowa Review
, (Vol. 29 Number 1, Spring 1999).