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film

Gillian Armstrong’s Last Days Chez Nous

A man’s home is his castle. A woman’s place is in the home. A house is not a home. Home is where the heart is.

THE HOMES SOME OF US live in are made of mortar and wood and tenderness. For others, they are built from battered tin cans, cardboard boxes, terror. We also have homes in thought: I imagine feminism as a home, for example, in which, in an ideal world, room after room runs into the next, with all the doors open and the boundaries blurred. Ideas circulate like air, clearing out stuffiness and breathing life into stale corners. But for many of us, feminism is no longer a safe house; a pastiche of cultural odds and ends, it is less the sum of its parts (sex/race/gender/classpick one or all of the above) than a vague umbrella many of us hoist on singularly nasty days. Problem is, it’s 1993, and we’re still trying to figure out how to make sturdier shelter.

Still, that the home can be

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