“Disarm the audience with comedy,” Fleabag’s creator, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, once said, “then punch them in the gut with drama when they least expect it.” She wasn’t actually invoking Nora Ephron’s autobiographical novel Heartburn or its film adaptation when offering this advice but both encapsulate it to a T.
Ephron, who died in 2012, is mostly remembered for writing and directing romantic comedies. Her oeuvre is packed with witty banter and charming meet-cutes: you’re probably picturing Meg Ryan simulating orgasm in a coffee shop, or Meg Ryan dumping Bill Pullman for Tom Hanks, or Meg Ryan dumping Greg Kinnear for Tom Hanks. Ephron also possessed a wryly observational and frequently acerbic wit, reminiscent of Dorothy Parker and David Sedaris, and Heartburn is at times so acerbic it’s enough to induce actual heartburn. Its apparent dearth of charm is perhaps why it’s less universally beloved than When Harry Met Sally (1989), Sleepless in Seattle (1993) or You’ve Got Mail (1998). After all, its basic plot – “man serially cheats on his heavily pregnant wife” – isn’t exactly conducive to Netflix and chilling.
