I have a confession to make: I miss Katherine Heigl. In the mid- to late 2000s she spent five years doing romantic comedies, or what was left of them by the time she got there. She put up a decent fight. To watch her withstand the jeers of the boy-men in “Knocked Up,” the cave-manning of Gerard Butler in “The Ugly Truth” or the bridesmaid-outfit montage in “27 Dresses” was to witness a genre’s assault on one of its last dedicated practitioners. Heigl didn’t get to show the luminance, flintiness or idiosyncrasy of her romantic-comedy forebears; she was given too few moments of wit or insight. Instead, she was tough, stubborn, gainfully employed and — like most of the women in these movies, by that point — counterproductively heartless, tolerant of whatever partnership the plot backed her into. Her time as a romantic-comedy star was more a feat of survival than a cause for celebration. But as long as Heigl was around, so were romantic comedies, and that was something.
Now both are essentially gone, and we’re making do with substitutions, decoys and mirages: things that seem like romantic comedy but are actually fizzy soap operas (“Crazy Rich Asians”), teen movies (“To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before”), funny dramas (“You’re the Worst”), TV Tinder (“Dating Around”) or sports (“The Bachelor”). Half the time, what gets labeled “romantic comedy” is just anything with ordinary women in it (“Book Club” is a deluxe ensemble comedy; “Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again” is the same, but with ABBA songs). Genuine romantic comedies have vanished entirely. In 2009, seven of the 50 highest-grossing films in North America were some kind of romantic comedy. Last year, virtually none were. So far this year, the thing that has come closest is a sendup that requires Rebel Wilson to imagine she’s in a romantic comedy while she’s actually in a coma. The conventions of romantic comedy are now considered absurd and foreign enough that a regular comedy can laugh about how ridiculous it would be to exist in a romantic one.
You could easily see the genre’s demise as a form of justice. Don’t women in movies have better things to do than wonder if they’re going to meet some dude? Shouldn’t they be running countries, curing diseases, shooting lasers out of their gloves and spin-kicking anonymous goons over casino balconies? Also: How is it that a genre this old could rarely bring itself to include anyone other than wealthy straight white folks? At its worst, these movies could be painfully formulaic, corny, retrograde about gender and so unrealistic about love that they were often accused of poisoning real-life romance. (Back in 2008, a study in Scotland concluded that watching them can create unrealistic expectations of romantic partners.) Good riddance, you might cry. Enjoy your spot in antiquity! Say hi to westerns for me.
[Revisit the best actors of 2018]
I have no serious rebuttal to any of these objections. They’re mostly true. I’m a single black gay man, and therefore an unlikely champion of the American romantic comedy: What’s in these movies for me?
And yet here I am, in a state of panicked rumination: Who are we without these movies? Romantic comedy is the only genre committed to letting relatively ordinary people — no capes, no spaceships, no infinite sequels — figure out how to deal meaningfully with another human being. These are the lowest-stakes movies we have that are also about our highest standards for ourselves, movies predicated on the improvement of communication, the deciphering of strangers and the performance of more degrees of honesty than I ever knew existed — gentle, cruel, blunt, clarifying, T.M.I., strategic, tardy, medical, sexual, sartorial. They take our primal hunger to connect with one another and give it a story. And at their best, they do much more: They make you believe in the power of communion.
This was work determined, across the whole history of cinema, to find something funny about loneliness, curiosity, attraction, intimacy, conflict and rapprochement. So maybe it’s the most featherweight of genres — but maybe it’s also among the most important. This is moviemaking that explores a basic human wonder about how to connect with a person who’s not you. And here we are dancing on its grave.
I’ve made it this far calling these movies what nobody does anymore. They’re “rom-coms” now — old trade-publication lingo that replaced both the “romance” and the “comedy.” But a pure Hollywood romantic comedy — according, at least, to me — needs both. It springs from a long literary tradition, from Shakespeare to Jane Austen: putting two people in proximity and conspiring, with wit and zing, for a match. Some of the pleasure lies in the way the two might begin as combatants and end up in each other’s arms. Strangers become intimate. The estranged become reacquainted. The two people are, crucially, equal players in this narrative. The world of the movie orbits entirely around the both of them.
One ideal structure for this is the “drawbridge.” The word applies more obviously to romantic melodramas, in which two lovers are kept apart by geography or time; I’m actually stealing this application from the New Yorker critic David Denby, who used it to describe the way Jude Law and Nicole Kidman find their way to each other across the brutal terrain of “Cold Mountain.” But the drawbridge is also perfect for the purer aims of romantic comedy. It represents two even halves lowering themselves toward each other — by making admissions, revealing vulnerabilities, giving in to magnetism — until both sides meet in the middle, ready to go somewhere deeper together, somewhere the audience won’t see.
I was raised on two great eras of romantic comedies. First was the older, louder, wilder style, from the 1930s and 1940s, built on stars at the peak of their powers: Spencer Tracy shouting at Katharine Hepburn, Katharine Hepburn shouting at Cary Grant, Cary Grant shouting at Rosalind Russell, Rosalind Russell doing things with her posture that made shouting unnecessary. They imagined a certain parity of the sexes; their radical scheme, for the 1940s, was to balance the story between a man and a woman by making the woman formidable and remarkable and alive, in exactly the ways romantic-comedy heroines would later be criticized for not being. Many of them treated this quest for parity as a contest for supremacy, both in the relationship and in the plot. They were full of competition and gamesmanship and verbal battles between the sexes. Sometimes the men in them were a little like hapless, klutzy Henry Fonda in Preston Sturges’s “The Lady Eve”: literally falling for women like Barbara Stanwyck.
Sex was rarely far from the surface, but in the ’50s and ’60s it really started to announce itself: The stars seemed either made of all the sex in the world (the Marilyn Monroes and Jane Russells) or none of it (Doris Day, the great movie virgin, defending herself against Rock Hudson’s length and hair and teeth). And if right now looks bad for the romantic comedy, the frenetic 1970s were almost worse. Some of the movies may have been better — “What’s Up, Doc?,” “Shampoo,” “Annie Hall,” “Starting Over” — but their approach to relationships was cockeyed. The people in them seem to have soured on love stories, and on one another. It was only as movies swelled into blockbusters that the conventional romantic comedy flourished again, repotted inside “Star Wars” and “Superman” and, a few years later, shoved into the Indiana Jones movies and “Ghostbusters.” And the old battle-of-the-sexes plot came back in two adventure fantasies Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner made together in the first half of the ’80s.
This was the other period I grew up on, a modern gloss on the classic style: Holly Hunter over- and outthinking William Hurt, Susan Sarandon tying Kevin Costner’s tongue, Goldie Hawn squaring off against Burt Reynolds or Kurt Russell. Romance was giving in to 1980s corporate fever, and expanded to obsess over work and the workplace — in “Tootsie” and “Baby Boom,” “The Secret of My Success” and “Working Girl.” The stakes were bigger than companionship; the romance was, in part, with the office, and what it meant to be a woman working in one. In 1988, two of the five Best Picture nominees at the Oscars were romantic comedies: “Broadcast News” and “Moonstruck.” So, arguably, were two of 1989’s: “Working Girl” and “The Accidental Tourist.”
Then, at the end of the decade, a movie came along that restored the genre to its easiest, smartest, most essential self, deploying the drawbridge structure as an act of discreet feminism and presenting two gainfully employed potential partners whose workplaces we never see. “When Harry Met Sally” opened in the summer of 1989, and it was a moon-landing sort of event, not because of the money it made but because, as written by Nora Ephron and directed by Rob Reiner, it formalized the genre with a thesis. On the last day of college, in 1977, Sally Albright (Meg Ryan) agrees to drive a friend’s boyfriend, Harry Burns (Billy Crystal), from Chicago to New York. The drive alone — 15 very funny minutes — would have made the movie. He’s crude, and a lech, and he hits on her, which she can’t believe (“Amanda is my friend! ”). They argue about the end of “Casablanca.” She insists they just be pals. He says, to her bafflement, that friendship’s impossible: No man could coexist platonically with a woman, because he’d rather be having sex with her. Upon arrival in New York, she offers her hand to shake: “It was interesting.” After that, the credits honestly could have rolled — but the movie skips ahead five years for a second encounter, then five more for a third. We watch two adversaries mature, warm to each other, then age into each other. Each is given a respective life and point of view; the molecular composition of the movie is different when they’re together than when they’re apart. They don’t have to fall in love, but somebody has to win their argument, and it turns out to be both of them — she wouldn’t have the sex without the friendship. So, drawbridge, and a draw.
To watch this movie now is to appreciate its traditionalism as a romantic comedy, one that would set the template for an explosion of them over the coming years. These movies know they’re best left to stars — that the fun of them is in the chemistry of, say, Richard Gere and Julia Roberts or Drew Barrymore and Adam Sandler bringing out the best in each other — and the people who made “When Harry Met Sally” knew that Meg Ryan was a star, this buffet of bewilderment, surprise, wonder, self-assurance and overreaction. Her faked deli orgasm is still up there with Sonny’s getting whacked at the tollbooth and the baby carriage bumping down the staircase in “The Untouchables” — the famous passage that’s always more perfect than you remember.
Dollar for dollar, she might trail Roberts as the biggest romantic-comedy star of that second boom. And yet nobody symbolizes the hazards of these movies better than Ryan does. She made about seven more of them, three with Tom Hanks, falling in more movie love than almost any of her peers. But the longer Ryan (and Roberts, and eventually Sandra Bullock and Barrymore) stayed in romantic comedies — and the longer romantic comedies kept rearranging the same tropes into new configurations — the more their personas seemed to smell a rat. A dozen years of these movies left the fictional Ryan sourly single enough to arrive at “Kate & Leopold” (2001) as a snappish wine guzzler who declares: “Maybe the whole love thing is just a grown-up version of Santa Claus, just a myth we’ve been fed since childhood. So we keep buying magazines, joining clubs and doing therapy and watching movies with hit pop songs played over love montages, all in a pathetic attempt to explain why our Love Santa keeps getting caught in the chimney.” The queen of romantic comedies was now sneering at them.
But the movie had a plan. Ryan’s ex has discovered some kind of wormhole (I know, I know) and accidentally imported an aristocrat from 1876. The aristocrat (a still-new Hugh Jackman) is living in the ex’s apartment, trying to figure out how to work the toaster. Before he goes back to his own time, though, he’s determined to restore Ryan’s faith. She’s looking for a big promotion at a New York market-research firm while also putting up with an oily pig of a boss. It’s all too much. So there goes Meg Ryan climbing onto an altogether different bridge in order to take a leap — off the bridge, into a wormhole, to go live in 1876!
It made a kind of sense. The present didn’t look great. Ryan seemed wiped out by the genre that made her a star, for about the same reasons real-life women were exasperated by modern romance. All the good men were either gay, taken or from the 19th century.
[Meg Ryan on romantic comedies,celebrity and leaving it all behind.]
It’s a shame, though: On the evening of her leap, maybe a mile away, Carrie and Samantha and Miranda and Charlotte were probably out having cocktails. She could have commiserated with them. “Sex and the City,” which ran from 1998 to 2004, repurposed the vestigial glamour of the classical-Hollywood romantic comedy. The show proceeded from the belief that it was more fun and interesting to be out searching for somebody drawbridge-worthy than to actually lower your bridge. It was a show about dating that was highly conversant in correlated concerns — sex, love, work, hygiene, etiquette, decorum, things up the alley of the average Ryan character. But its priority was a friendship among women. And it was one of a few cultural products that marked a big shift in our depictions of men and women looking for love: they weren’t looking together anymore.
The drawbridge had given way to separate locker rooms. On-screen, women were doing more on their own, often in what people wrote off as “chick flicks.” Men did the same, in what we called “bromances.” On a show like “Sex and the City,” straight men aren’t really the women’s social peers (their male friends are gay) or equal concerns of the plot — they’re distant objects to be dissected and taxonomized, puzzled over and tested. (Other romances were really about the woman; the guy she fell for was just a placeholder for a desirable mate, an Easy-Bake man like the generic trophy girlfriends male protagonists have always won at the end of comedies.) Across the hall, in the men’s room, were buddy movies like “Wedding Crashers,” “I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry,” “The Hangover” and Judd Apatow’s comedies, like “Knocked Up” or his glorious “The 40-Year-Old Virgin.” These movies feel a little like romantic comedies, but they exist almost entirely in a male world suspicious of women — they’re tricky to deal with, likely to judge or nag, good for encouraging maturity but too mature for fun. Suddenly, homosocial relationships seemed preferable to heterosexual ones.
For women, evidently, all that drawbridge business was growing passé. Devotees like Nancy Meyers still believed in it, but movies like “Something’s Gotta Give” and “It’s Complicated” were about older women and men re-discovering romance. Younger stars weren’t passing through romantic comedies at all; increasingly, they were making action movies. Around the time “Sex and the City” ceased TV operations, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt spent “Mr. & Mrs. Smith” as married hit people trying to assassinate each other. Jolie never made a proper romantic comedy at the height of her stardom. Being in one requires an acknowledgment that love is out of your hands, and the pleasure of the Angelina Jolie experience was that very little was out of her hands. She made more sense amid an uptick in women-fronted blockbusters, shooting at men, beating them up, killing them, avenging alongside them. This was another kind of equality, one certain romantic comedies predicted. In “Notting Hill,” Julia Roberts’s movie-star character travels to London to promote some kind of sci-fi/action/superhero film called “Helix.” At the time I remember thinking: I’d watch her in that! Now it feels like there’s a “Helix” every week.
We had to reckon with changing standards, too. The romantic comedy went into full decline during the same era in which feminist critics were rethinking all media directed at women — from fashion magazines to movies — asking why women were continually offered roles in which their greatest achievement was a man. In “Failure to Launch,” “You Me and Dupree,” “Along Came Polly” and “Knocked Up,” the men were practically rescue operations (forget the drawbridge; you needed FEMA), while the women around them were reduced to either saviors, bystanders or obstacles. When they were more than that, they seemed borderline nuts (“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days”) or borderline evil (“The Proposal”). The embrace of the Bechdel-Wallace Test, from Alison Bechdel’s “Dykes to Watch Out For” comic strip — asking whether a movie has at least two women in it, who talk to each other, about something other than a man — codified that imbalance. The test reveals American movies’ narrow interest in women, but once it came into frequent use a decade ago, it tended to deem the heterosexual romantic comedy as impolitic or subfeminist by default. Men are all Sally and her best friend, Marie, talk about. (And women are all Harry and his best friend, Jess, talk about.)
Eventually, it seemed reasonable to surmise that if you cared about a female character, it might be more satisfying to watch her solve a crime or fight for a promotion, to be an astronaut or Margaret Thatcher — anything besides trying to get to know a man. It became difficult, at some point, to even conceive of a romantic-comedy plot that could meet our moment; we’re surrounded by films that come close but run into practical obstacles that force them to veer in some other direction. “The Big Sick” requires drawbridge work by the male lead, but not by the woman, who spends most of the movie in a coma; what makes him likable isn’t courtship, but the more adult work of helping her parents care for her. (It’s them he has to win over.) And the characters in “La La Land” meet cutely, but they so idealize work that their relationship becomes a job, too. Here, a romantic-comedy finale is possible only in the trick ending that precedes the actual, pragmatic one; it exists only as a what-if. Dreaming up a modern romantic-comedy plot that works — one that wouldn’t send the wrong message or feel too unrealistic or too old-fashioned — seems risky. But I wonder if we’re kidding ourselves; I wonder if we actually do want the risk.
Listen, there’s a perfectly obvious industrial explanation for this, too. Major American studios have been releasing less, and middle-tier, middlebrow, midbudget adult movies are now virtually nonexistent as a priority. With the middle essentially vanished, gone, too, are trust in and patience for the kind of stardom that achieves nothing more than dinner and a movie.
Still, it’s easy to feel as if we’re in the midst of a major reconsideration, one in which the work of partnership has to wait. There’s too much personal work to be done — corrections, upheavals, inclusions, reimaginings, representations. You know what they say: How you gonna love somebody else if you can’t love yourself? This might be what’s happening in the Netflix series “Russian Doll,” in which a loutish white software engineer (the Harry) learns that her fate is conjoined, via a kind of wormhole (I know!), with that of a fastidious, depressed young black yuppie (her Sally). In another version of this story, that connection would push them to fall in love. In this show, they’re pushed toward something else — solving their own dark problems by finding a more basic recognition and care for one another as human beings. The show senses how disconnected we’ve become.
It’s a disconnection I thought about last year, when — amid a tide of sexual-assault allegations in which men were accused of all sorts of heinous, psychopathic, weird stuff — along came news of an incident that people seemed to see as far more routine. It involved a couple of scenes between a young female photographer and a famous male comedian: a date during which, as the young woman described it to a reporter, he was sexually aggressive, she demurred and tried to communicate her discomfort, he pushed and pushed and basically turned into Pepé Le Pew and eventually she was on her way home, upset. The other Me Too horror stories could be harder to get our imaginations around (How many women? Why is the Mossad in this story?), but here was one that made immediate sense. People pored over the details she reported — about his choosing the wine, about his seeming eagerness to leave the oyster bar they went to, about his calling her a car. Women recognized a situation they’d been in more times than they cared to remember; men let the level of fury sink in and hoped they’d never been that guy.
I was most struck by the two cultural planets these people seemed to be coming from: not Venus and Mars, but romantic comedy and porn. There has been lots of research into what an endless supply of pornography, starting at a young age, has done to men — warping our judgment, patience, sympathy and imagination. But I’ve yet to find any comparable exploration of what we might get out of romantic comedy — an entire genre about people coming together, as opposed to one that prefers your coming alone. The stereotype was always that these movies were for women, but some of their value surely came from the fact that men and women both watched them, often together, everybody absorbing images of what it looked like to engage with each other.
The great thing about the drawbridge is that anybody can wind up on one. We might be readier to return to it than we know. In the past three years, we’ve made hits of downbeat love stories like “Moonlight” and “La La Land” and “A Star Is Born.” Maybe that’s where we are right now: pragmatic, skeptical, in the mood for romantic tragedy, just like that previous ebb in the ’70s. And yet I can’t go a week without a website, magazine or entertainment show shooting its confetti canon over some romantic comedy’s anniversary or staging a reunion with its stars. But why are we going back to 1876 when the movies can just make more — funnier and crazier and browner and gayer ones? When they do, they should give Katherine Heigl a call. Maybe she wasn’t done with them either.
老版跑狗图67图【第】【二】【百】【三】【十】【八】【章】【议】【论】【再】【起】 【听】【到】【云】【珞】【这】【么】【说】【后】，【小】【宓】【才】【放】【开】【手】，【动】【了】【动】【身】【体】【调】【整】【好】【后】【继】【续】【睡】【觉】。 【如】【此】【折】【腾】，【已】【经】【是】【快】【要】【到】【早】【上】，【随】【着】【太】【阳】【的】【升】【起】【周】【围】【也】【逐】【渐】【明】【亮】【起】【来】，【与】【来】【时】【相】【比】，【这】【里】【已】【经】【完】【全】【变】【成】【了】【不】【毛】【之】【地】，【就】【在】【云】【珞】【有】【些】【尴】【尬】【之】【时】，【地】【面】【裂】【开】，【不】【少】【干】【枯】【的】【手】【臂】【从】【地】【下】【伸】【出】，【云】【珞】【定】【睛】【看】【去】，【一】【具】【具】【尸】【体】
【对】【身】【处】【强】【队】【的】NBA【球】【员】【来】【说】，【他】【们】【没】【有】【圣】【诞】【假】【期】。 【就】【像】NFL【有】【超】【级】【碗】、NHL【有】【冬】【季】【经】【典】【赛】【一】【样】，NBA【也】【需】【要】【有】【自】【己】【的】【节】【假】【日】【比】【赛】，【圣】【诞】【大】【战】【正】【是】【为】【此】【而】【生】。 【身】【处】【强】【队】，【圣】【诞】【夜】【必】【然】【不】【可】【能】【和】【家】【人】【共】【度】，【他】【们】【需】【要】【比】【赛】，【对】【某】【些】【人】【来】【说】，【能】【在】【此】【等】【佳】【节】【为】【家】【人】【送】【上】【比】【赛】【是】【一】【件】【幸】【福】【的】【事】【情】，【而】【对】【另】【一】【部】【分】
【邓】【永】【预】【想】【过】【这】【人】【可】【能】【会】【要】【钱】，【有】【可】【能】【是】【之】【前】【他】【得】【罪】【过】【的】【什】【么】【人】【上】【门】【报】【复】【来】【了】，【可】【是】【他】【却】【没】【想】【到】，【这】【人】【一】【开】【口】【就】【是】【要】【荷】【夏】。 “【你】【别】【欺】【人】【太】【甚】！” 【莫】【之】【初】【冷】【笑】【了】【一】【声】：“【欺】【人】【太】【甚】？【违】【背】【信】【义】【之】【人】【有】【什】【么】【脸】【说】【这】【句】【话】？” 【邓】【永】【似】【乎】【是】【听】【出】【了】【莫】【之】【初】【话】【里】【的】【意】【思】，【说】【他】【是】【一】【个】【背】【信】【弃】【义】【之】【人】，【让】【他】【一】【时】【间】【沉】【默】【了】【下】老版跑狗图67图【王】【东】【家】【见】【依】【旧】【是】【赵】【安】【澜】【开】【口】【与】【自】【己】【说】，【更】【加】【确】【信】【的】【认】【为】【萧】【睿】【是】【哑】【巴】，【但】【他】【也】【没】【有】【多】【说】【什】【么】，【继】【续】【与】【说】【合】【伙】【的】【事】【情】：“【你】【给】【我】【们】【提】【供】【那】【些】【特】【色】【菜】，【一】【起】【附】【上】【做】【法】，【每】【两】【个】【月】【就】【出】【一】【道】【新】【菜】，【你】【们】【提】【供】【的】【菜】【你】【们】【开】【价】，【菜】【谱】【我】【们】【按】【每】【份】【十】【两】【银】【钱】，【赵】【厨】【娘】【你】【看】【这】【可】【否】?” 【赵】【安】【澜】【笑】【着】【与】【王】【东】【家】【说】【道】：“【这】【个】【菜】【谱】【我】【们】【不】【收】
【楚】【悠】【耸】【了】【耸】【肩】【膀】。 【她】【真】【的】【只】【是】【来】【看】【一】【眼】【而】【已】，【没】【有】【别】【的】【恶】【意】，【不】【过】【这】【个】【话】【要】【说】【出】【来】，【估】【计】【那】【雉】【鸡】【精】【也】【不】【会】【相】【信】【的】。 【所】【以】【只】【能】【闪】【身】【走】【人】【了】。 “【本】【来】【今】【年】【想】【看】【看】【美】【人】【了】，【奈】【何】【美】【人】【太】【凶】【了】，【那】【我】【就】【下】【次】【再】【来】【吧】，【后】【会】【有】【期】。” 【说】【完】【就】【跳】【上】【墙】【头】【往】【回】【跑】【去】。 【雉】【鸡】【精】【一】【看】【楚】【悠】【要】【走】，【立】【马】【就】【追】【上】【前】【来】。
“【小】【南】……” 【看】【到】【自】【来】【也】【忽】【然】【回】【头】【并】【且】【呼】【唤】【自】【己】【的】【名】【字】，【让】【小】【南】【有】【些】【惊】【讶】，【愣】【了】【愣】【神】。 “【带】【着】【长】【门】，【先】【躲】【远】【一】【点】。” 【自】【来】【也】【缓】【缓】【道】。 【小】【南】【闻】【言】【有】【些】【发】【懵】，【眼】【神】【中】【不】【由】【浮】【现】【出】【一】【股】【自】【责】，【不】【过】【抱】【在】【怀】【中】【的】【长】【门】【几】【声】【虚】【弱】【痛】【苦】【的】【轻】【咳】【后】，【很】【快】【就】【回】【过】【了】【神】。 【没】【敢】【再】【犹】【豫】，【小】【南】【抱】【起】【长】【门】，**【纸】【片】【开】【始】
【何】【止】【是】【超】【乎】【想】【象】，【在】【娜】【塔】【莉】【的】【心】【中】，【他】【早】【就】【已】【经】【超】【脱】【人】【类】【的】【范】【畴】，【接】【近】【于】【神】【祇】【了】。 【随】【之】【节】【乃】【婆】【婆】【邀】【请】【两】【人】【去】【她】【的】【店】【里】【做】【客】。 【娜】【塔】【莉】【又】【像】【个】【神】【经】【病】【一】【样】，【用】【双】【手】【捂】【着】【拖】【着】【脸】【颊】：“【哇】【啊】【啊】，【真】【是】【像】【做】【梦】【一】【样】【啊】，【居】【然】【可】【以】【去】【节】【乃】【婆】【婆】【的】【店】【里】！” 【对】【于】【她】，【雷】【音】【是】【彻】【底】【无】【语】【了】，【看】【来】“【矜】【持】”【两】【个】【字】【和】【她】【压】【根】【儿】