This is Shanna. She won't wake up. Shanna, Shanna, wake up!
I am my mother's daughter (but with 50% more panache and a higher serving of flippancy!): I have this "problem" wherein I'll see any number of teen actresses on television and yell out the plot of a horribly depressing Lifetime movie the subject was in before hitting the bigtime. It's horrifying for anyone that is indirectly involved. Growing Pains on PAX? I'll conjure the scene where a skeletal Tracey Gold is giving a hoarse monologue on the family couch where she is almost-dying. (There is some respect here, given Tracy's personal history, and you know, eating disorders are not a laughing matter.) Sleepover airing on ABC Family while channel surfing? Not only will I repeat the entire plot of The Party Never Stops: Diary of a Teenage Binge Drinker (misleading: she's a college freshman, not a high school sophomore bummer) but I'll renact 56% of the movie, starting with one of the last scenes where Jesse Tanner desperately shakes the cold dead body of her freshman roommate, Shanna, and work my way back through the interesting parts of the middle. (I want to go on record that I did not make a character page for Jesse Tanner. But only because I don't have an IMDB account.) I gloss over some of the verbal content with the frat ladies and gentlemen, but only because I was so flabbergasted; I saw the last twenty minutes before I saw the beginning.
Except Winifred is more respectful. She thinks these movies are "touching portrayals" of people's lives. She won't play a role in a dramatic re-telling of Odd Girl Out and is probably ashamed at my lengthy diatribe sharing my intimate Lifetime secrets. (She has a point.)
There's a little of this plot ruinage in The Sisters. Emily loves a good one; Charlotte and Fitzwilliam suffering residual angst and suffering from She's Too Young. But the never rise their voices to falsetto. Yet they seem slightly less involved in the tears than Winifred. Charlotte will take a good noir any day but is less impressed with the Italian male weepies post WWII (I sobbed my way through the one about the suicidal man and his dog, leave me alone). Emily is neither embarassed or 'shamed. This is a part of life, a love for surface entertainment, and she does it with grace and poise. What, this is normal, she says, and then she flips to Martha for the monologue before making her own brown sugar from scratch. And there I am, playing the role of Shanna's dead body on my living room floor while her mixer whirs in my phone.
The thing about Winifred is that she doesn't cry. Death is a part of life. Beaches will easily ruin the rest of my sunny afternoon, but Winifred is probably in bed watching late night television right now still giggling about the mushroom soup based casseroles and their inevitable servingware of white ceramic bowls and colorful Tupperware.