Rich Kids

There’s an argument to be made that there is no childhood like a childhood in New York. And it’s an argument that I, having only been to New York for one terrifying week as a twelve year old, shouldn’t be able to make. But a canon of fiction, tv shows and most importantly cinema has done a job of showing what being effectively a mini grown up in the centre of the world would have felt like.

Most of Rich Kids isn’t anything particularly special in that canon — not as cute as Little Manhattan, not as polished as The Squid and the Whale, not as trippy as Yellow Yellow — but it is honest enough to earn a slot. That’s despite its kind of onerous simplicity — meandering dialogue and amateurish performances keep Rich Kids from any A-lists; Jeremy Levy’s stilted delivery is particularly tough to sit through. But the whole thing bumbles along with enough insight to feel sweet and true, and then have all its various plotlines collide in maybe the best domestic fallout captured on camera — John Lithgow in his little cardigan tripping over a waterbed will stay with me forever.

There’s not much there, but what is is golden. Doesn't matter that I’m not a New Yorker. Damn I miss New York.

There’s an argument to be made that there is no childhood like a childhood in New York. And it’s an argument that I, having only been to New York for one terrifying week as a twelve year old, shouldn’t be able to make. But a canon of fiction, tv shows and most importantly cinema has done a job of showing what being effectively a mini grown up in the centre of the world would have felt like.

Most of Rich Kids isn’t anything particularly special in that canon — not as cute as Little Manhattan, not as polished as The Squid and the Whale, not as trippy as Yellow Yellow — but it is honest enough to earn a slot. That’s despite its kind of onerous simplicity — meandering dialogue and amateurish performances keep Rich Kids from any A-lists; Jeremy Levy’s stilted delivery is particularly tough to sit through. But the whole thing bumbles along with enough insight to feel sweet and true, and then have all its various plotlines collide in maybe the best domestic fallout captured on camera — John Lithgow in his little cardigan tripping over a waterbed will stay with me forever.

There’s not much there, but what is is golden. Doesn't matter that I’m not a New Yorker. Damn I miss New York.

There’s an argument to be made that there is no childhood like a childhood in New York. And it’s an argument that I, having only been to New York for one terrifying week as a twelve year old, shouldn’t be able to make. But a canon of fiction, tv shows and most importantly cinema has done a job of showing what being effectively a mini grown up in the centre of the world would have felt like.

Most of Rich Kids isn’t anything particularly special in that canon — not as cute as Little Manhattan, not as polished as The Squid and the Whale, not as trippy as Yellow Yellow — but it is honest enough to earn a slot. That’s despite its kind of onerous simplicity — meandering dialogue and amateurish performances keep Rich Kids from any A-lists; Jeremy Levy’s stilted delivery is particularly tough to sit through. But the whole thing bumbles along with enough insight to feel sweet and true, and then have all its various plotlines collide in maybe the best domestic fallout captured on camera — John Lithgow in his little cardigan tripping over a waterbed will stay with me forever.

There’s not much there, but what is is golden. Doesn't matter that I’m not a New Yorker. Damn I miss New York.

There’s an argument to be made that there is no childhood like a childhood in New York. And it’s an argument that I, having only been to New York for one terrifying week as a twelve year old, shouldn’t be able to make. But a canon of fiction, tv shows and most importantly cinema has done a job of showing what being effectively a mini grown up in the centre of the world would have felt like.

Most of Rich Kids isn’t anything particularly special in that canon — not as cute as Little Manhattan, not as polished as The Squid and the Whale, not as trippy as Yellow Yellow — but it is honest enough to earn a slot. That’s despite its kind of onerous simplicity — meandering dialogue and amateurish performances keep Rich Kids from any A-lists; Jeremy Levy’s stilted delivery is particularly tough to sit through. But the whole thing bumbles along with enough insight to feel sweet and true, and then have all its various plotlines collide in maybe the best domestic fallout captured on camera — John Lithgow in his little cardigan tripping over a waterbed will stay with me forever.

There’s not much there, but what is is golden. Doesn't matter that I’m not a New Yorker. Damn I miss New York.