Jane Fonda has written a new book and we are going to be subjected to several opinion pieces on her. The Guardian already published on interview with her. What struck me is how difficult it is to write a story about someone like Fonda. What should she be made into? A star? A good actress? A radical lefty, the Hanoi Jane of various right-wing websites? A member of the wealthy elite? A nutcase? A feminazi? A fitness fanatic? A woman who has managed to age well? Ted Turner's ex-wife? Tom Hayden's ex-wife? Roger Vadim's ex-wife?
All of these must be squashed in and the whole thing must be done so that Fonda will end up looking ridiculous whatever she actually says:
I get up to leave. "I'll show you out a different way," she says. We walk through an atrium painted in pale pink, with huge silver doors leading out of her flat. "I designed it myself," she says. "It represents the womb. The doors are the labia, and this" - she points to the corridor - "is the birth canal."
I stare at her. Are you serious?
"Yes," she says. "I'm serious."
This has been done for so long that I really don't know what she is like. This is tiresome. Maybe I should read her book?