I was compelled by most of this book even in spite of having seen the movie a bunch of times. I guess I like a 1970s pastiche and I liked imagining Sigourney Weaver (who doesn't). And the writing was good like good solid sentences. I liked them. But by the end here I just feel reaffirmed in my stance that men shouldn't really be allowed to make art, or at least I shouldn't partake of it.