![]() Every few years it looked a little different: a bleak undertow appeared in Holly’s jolly everyday carousel of parties and suitors, as did the poignant aspirationalism of her morning window-shopping walks. Cats were a cheap and easy way to my heart in a movie: the whiplash of panic and relief I felt over the rash disposal and cute retrieval of Holly’s ginger mog returns to me every time I watch it still.Īll of which is to say that Blake Edwards’ essentially modest romantic comedy became for me one of those strange texts by which you mark your own shifts in understanding and perspective. And not least of all – probably most of all, if I’m being honest – there was a cat. Audrey Hepburn, so perfectly doe-eyed and beehived and brightly funny and winsomely sad, seemed as much to me a force of magic as Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music, even if the person she was playing made less sense to me. No matter: it was probably one of my first encounters with pure movie star power, or at least one of the first times I recognised it as such. We watched it many times in my childhood, when I was rather too young to understand what exactly Manhattan socialite Holly Golightly did with her life – though, in my defence, the film rather sidesteps the issue too. And then, by extension, to me, as a kind of inheritance. ![]() I thus grew up thinking of Breakfast at Tiffany’s as a film that belonged – via the tape, in a most literal and physical sense – specifically to one person. ![]()
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