Liz Colville

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We vaguely religious types, less at home at church than we are on Susan Miller’s website, in a yoga class, and in the pages of self-help books, tend to only turn to the G-man when we’re really lost.

The problem with so much sound is that it is undoubtedly accompanied by a lot of other things: stuff, things to look at, things that can’t be looked away from. I add sound to the sound in attempt to block out the sound, which of course doesn’t work. Instead it just splices my attention further.

My head feels like a radio tower sometimes, and I wonder if anyone else’s does, like in choosing to live here we must accept a role to poorly but earnestly try to keep track of each of the conversations that have happened here since 1920.

You begin to appreciate things you took for granted when you had them, of course, like warmth and cable television. That was part of the idea.

If the other arguments that have been made aren’t working — that we’re becoming too isolated from one other, that we all have ADD now, that we don’t have good manners or interpersonal skills anymore — maybe the argument that so much browsing makes us literally unhappy will.

Kate Bosworth and Jamie Blackley’s characters are in the middle of their journeys, rudderless. Because of their mutual hunger for something bigger than what life has so far shown them, it takes very little time, and very few words, for them to become infatuated with each other.

Given the relatively fresh context of millennial strife, maybe it’s not so surprising that Swanberg can take such a familiar rom-com configuration — the tense double-date, essentially — and make it revelatory again.

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