A great example of why men are always the inferior choice in telling women's stories.

Sophie's Choice has some extraordinary moments and they all occur when the film is focused on Sophie. The story that she tells isn't one that needs to be framed by a southern virgin writer, and yet that's what we get. Sure, perhaps he's intended to be the audience's lens for viewing her story, but it doesn't work, not for me. It is horribly tone deaf that after Sophie shares her deepest, darkest shame, we get a voice over from him saying: "I was twenty-two and a virgin and was clasping in my arms at last the goddess of my unending fantasies, my lust was inexhaustible."

What's even more of a shame is that the Sophie's story is told in these large exposition dumps that have very little cinematic value. The most redeemable quality here is, of course, Meryl Streep's performance. It's a performance that just bleeds and bleeds, so much so that I can't imagine watching this movie and not feeling anything. But every time the movie allows you to get to that place, it inserts good ole Stingo who epitomizes everything that's wrong with this movie.