Wanda

Very American Weekend by Waxahatchee.

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The promise of being just another cigarette drag, half a Budweiser, and bottomless drip-coffee away from feeling complete. To yearn to be stitched to another, to depend on a man without withdraw, hoping that he'll be "the one", "the one" that makes you forget what loneliness was, that makes you feel like a rabbit living under an oak tree, but instead, tonight, it'll have to be more of the same again -- two glasses of whiskey and a brown-beige suit inside a Be-Happy-yellow motel room off the highway with sheets that are patterned with roses yet smell like death. To be let down by potentials, again and again, until you sit at a bar, just feeling content with pulling on a cigarette with whoever appears under the dim light to your left, listening to the high-speed honky tonk with your eyes half closed and head tilted on this stranger's shoulder. Hoping, deep in the heart's recessed and dusty cabinets, he might be the city's promised "the one" who never arrived.

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Worth a watch for a the last scene alone. Nothing I wrote above really describes what that scene is like. Worth underscoring that Barbara Loden is one of the first women to write, direct, and act in an independent film. Maybe if we didn't have those suited, paleolithic, shiny-headed farts running the Hollywood oligopoly for over 100 years we'd have more movies like this.