Next year, Broadway will be treated to a straight-play adaptation of Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's. The Times' inimitable Patrick Healy—my journalist crush-of-the-month, for his unrelenting coverage  of the Rebecca nightmare—quotes playwright Richard Greenberg as saying, "The goal of this version is to return to the original setting of the novella, which is the New York of the Second World War, as well as to resume its tone — still stylish and romantic, yes, but rougher-edged and more candid than people generally remember." 

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Am I the only person who was never charmed by Holly Golightly? The movie is insufferably smug—far from being my favorite Audrey Hepburn movie, it's not even my favorite George Peppard. (Instead I'll choose the surprisingly gritty Operation Crossbow, which I caught on TV last month.) Seeing the poster plastered on the wall of every freshman girl I met the first week of college did nothing to raise my opinion of it—there is something uncomfortable about seeing poor Audrey held up as an icon of glamor and grace above a bunk bed stacked high with dirty clothes.