A Film Festival movie, the sort that never gets a real theatrical release. It was written and directed by its young star, Lena Dunham, with her real mother and real sister as her mother and sister, filmed in her mother’s real, huge, trendy, all-white TriBeCa apartment/studio for very little money. I applaud the resourcefulness it must have taken, and the bravery to show so much of what people will at least assume is her real story, and she shows considerable talent. Now if only she will come up with some stories I’m the least bit interested in … I’ve complained about New Yorkers of a certain social-economic-educational stratum before. The fact is, they make me tired. Sure, there are West Coasters who are equally clueless about what real life is all about for most of the rest of us, but there is a certain self-satisfaction about New Yorkers that just rubs me the wrong way. Woody Allen, at his best, can handle this stuff and amuse and entertain me, but this doesn’t. I will give pretty much any movie 30 minutes of my time, and we did here, but neither of us were interested in going on.