Ghost World ★★★★

Watching this right after Crumb, Terry Zwigoff’s prior treatise on sexual curiosity and frustration, you’ll notice some unexpected parallels. For one, Seymour’s prized collection of ragtime and blues records is housed in almost exactly the same bookshelf as Robert Crumb’s. And like him Ghost World's Enid is a harmless misanthrope, only she’s yet to settle on any creative outlet that provides catharsis from the unendurable human condition. The film is an unyielding parade of eyerolls, yet it’s hard to feel sorry for someone who's so clearly and deeply a creative thinker, from the way she dresses (leather jackets to vintage dresses to ironic tee shirts and numerous pairs of prescription glasses) to her room that resembles a curated museum of found objects to her preternatural taste in Seymour’s blues records to the Bollywood number that opens the film.