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The credits — Do we care about the credits? No, we care about the interloping images: Claire in her white Jaguar with the CEA JAE vanity plates; Claire lighting up another cig as her Jag hugs the Pacific Coast Highway; Claire looking over her shoulder at the thundering sea; Claire inhaling, introspecting, invigorating the lesbian cinematic landscape with her essence, her light.

Something like that.

Arcadia Writers' Retreat — Claire has arrived at an inopportune time. And by inopportune, I mean pornographic. She's assigned to Cabin 4, but Cabin 4 is full of grunts and moans at the moment. Claire gets sorta huffy about it and does very dramatic things like turn her head suddenly and fling her long blond hair around — you know, thespian things. Because if there's one thing these actors are trying to get across, it's the fact that they're acting.

Dr. Noel Benedict makes her entrance. Notice the sartorial synchronicity: Noel and Claire are both wearing taupe over black. It won't be the last time they seem to share a closet.

It is soon revealed that the grunts and moans are coming from a VCR, not real people; it's part of Dr. Benedict's “research.” How very curious.

Noel's research assistant, who was talking to Claire before the good doctor arrived, mumbles something about Claire and Noel being roommates, then wanders off. There's a lot of wandering off in this movie. Especially in the audience. (Sorry.)

Noel and Claire share an incredibly weak-looking handshake, and then stare each other down a little, sort of as if they're sizing each other up, but possibly as if they're wondering whose line it is. Noel asks Claire if she needs any help. Claire quirks a brow, so Noel adds, “With your luggage.”

Claire: Nnnnnnnnnnno. No, I'm fine.

I am not kidding: That's how long the N is. For nnnnnno good reason.

There are some lingering looks, and then Noel goes back to her porny research. Claire, mystified and strangely compelled, shakes her head and her sun-kissed tresses. Is it love? Or is it a tic and some dandruff?

Vanity press — There's a book on the coffee table. It's The Naked Truth, by Dr. Noel Benedict, not to be confused with William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch. But ultimately probably just as confusing as Naked Lunch, as will become abundantly, um, clear.

Claire picks up the book. She's just idly curious. How could you think she's actually interested? Surely that aloof expression is telling you all you need to know.

Pick a little, talk a little — Three women of indeterminate hairstyles are standing around, shootin' the breeze. As Claire walks by, one of the women grabs her, as if on cue. I say “as if on cue” because I can't figure out how she knew Claire was walking by. She wasn't even looking in Claire's direction. Maybe she has an acute sense of smell, or the proverbial eyes in the back of her head. Anyway.

Motion-sensing Woman: Why, it's Claire Jabrowski! [pointing to herself] Tara. Tara O'Hara, from the writers' convention in Atlanta.

Claire pretends to remember her. Some sort of banter ensues, but is quickly interrupted by Lynn, who's a bit of a rube and a big fan of Claire's. The other women are Adrienne, who isn't afraid to wear a tie, and Shiloh, who feels no need to explain herself. But Tara is happy to fill in:

Tara: Shiloh Starbright. Isn't it fascinating how those holy-istic types come up with such conceptual names?
Claire: Unlike your own.

As Lynn rambles on, Noel stomps by. Claire watches her walk. Rather intently. (I refer to the watching, not the walking.)

Tara explains that Noel is a “doctor of love” who “lets it all hang” in The Naked Truth.

Tara: Personally, I think she's a frustrated eunuch.
Claire: I think you have the wrong term. A eunuch describes a castrated man.
Tara: If the shoe fits, I say wear it.

Wait. A eunuch describes a castrated man? What, like, that's a eunuch's job or something? “That guy over there, he's tall and skinny, and he's wearing orange Zubaz. Oh, and he has no testicles.” Yeah, yeah, I know what she means, but saying “describes” when you could just say “is” is a sure sign of faux intellectualism. (So are words like “faux.”)

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