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Craig Blankenhorn/HBO

This week’s episode of Girls is the show at its most evocative. “American Bitch” is bottle episode directed by Richard Shepard, the same director who did both “One Man’s Trash” and “The Panic in Central Park” (otherwise known as “Hannah Fucks the Hot Doctor” and “Marnie Fucks Her Hot Fucked Up Ex”) takes place in the very fancy apartment of a famous writer, Chuck Palmer, who has recently faced allegations of sexual assault. Hannah, writing for a “niche feminist website,” has covered those allegations and her article is what has brought them together. Most of the episode is a Socratic dialogue between Hannah and Palmer, played by a fantastic Matthew Rhys, uglied up here with slicked-back curly hair and a giant beard to give him just the right amount of sleaze.

Tricia: At first I wasn’t sure that this was an interview, but it turns out he just wants to air out his side of the story, because a very rich, famous writer doesn’t have enough opportunities to do that. His apartment is indeed that of a rich, famous writer; I think it’s off Central Park, and by New York standards, it’s enormous, which means it is just a normal-sized two bedroom with a library with built-in bookshelves, and a spacious living room, an airy eat-in kitchen and, can you tell I want to live there? Probably about $5 million, too. Every part of it had some sort of award or photo of how famous and awesome he was. He even had a diploma in a bathroom.

Jessica: Hannah starts off by stating her reasons for writing about sexual assault allegations against him. They’re noble reasons, she wants to give space to marginalized voices, and she praises the internet for empowering women like his accusers. Palmer is patronizing in his response, he calls her “funny.” But it’s a backhanded compliment, he tells her that her talents would be used better elsewhere—anywhere that isn’t related to covering his alleged wrongdoings.

Tricia: Of course, he doesn’t see them as wrongdoings at all. And Hannah eviscerates him. The entire time, I could hear our own Sydney Brownstone, who uncovered the alleged rapes by Matt Hickey. Hannah-as-Syd says: “I read something about you that troubled me greatly—you using your power and your influence.” She also says: “It’s important to give voice to women who have been historically pushed aside.” He’s dismissive of all those girls—seems to think of them as writer groupies trying to find a “story” that they can now tell. In the kitchen scene, which is brutal, Hannah lets him have it. She tells him about her teacher who liked to give her neck rubs, and how creeped out and powerless she felt, and uses Chuck’s own words against him. “Look at me, I'm smart, and amazing, and now I have a story.”

Jessica: The story seems to touch Palmer. They move to another room and he reads her a piece of writing. In the course of this time, my sense is that these two characters are reaching a point of understanding, of each other’s reasons for being frustrated. And this storytelling scene compounds the idea that these two now get each other. Hannah apologizes for writing her blog post. He wants to understand her, he asks her about her dreams (of course, he’s self-deprecating about using the term “dreams”). She answers, she wants to be a writer. But we already knew that.

Tricia: She is letting her guard down with this creep, and you can see it—it’s how he does it. I’ve been in her position, listening to powerful men butter me up, and have these conversations that seem really “deep.” And the thing is, men you just met don’t actually want to be friends and have an intellectually stimulating conversation for fun. They have other motivations. Of course, by the end of the talking tour, they are in his bedroom, for seemingly innocent and writerly reasons. It is there (and this can’t be an accident) that he keeps his first editions and rare novels—in this case a signed copy of When She Was Good by Philip Roth, which was supposedly originally titled, “American Bitch” (where the episode gets its name). This is the novelist’s version of a rock star playing an unreleased record for an admiring girl. It’s here when he tell her: “You're not a journalist, Hannah, you're a fucking writer,” and he breaks her. (Confidential to Chuck Palmer: Fuck you.)

Jessica: Things take a weird turn when Palmer decides to lay down on his bed. He asks Hannah to join him, but with language that imply safeguards against any inappropriate behavior. He asks her to keep her clothes on. He says he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. He says that she doesn’t have to lie down: “if you will.” She chooses to lie down on her back, awkwardly clutching the Roth novel and staring at the ceiling, when he turns around and puts his dick on her. She looks at it and is horrified but she holds it, anyway.

Tricia: Everything she told him he does—uses his power and influence to seduce women and put them in compromising situations and create gray areas around sexual assault—he has just done to her. It’s like a slow-motion train crashing into itself. And, it’s not even over! The most insane part of this is that it’s expertly timed to his teenaged daughter coming home from school, so Hannah can’t really leave and can’t yell at him, and the daughter is sweet and wants to play the flute for them. So they sit and watch, him beaming and her glaring at him beaming.

Jessica: The camera work in this scene is so delicate. As it pans into both characters’ faces, the room becomes increasingly claustrophobic. The space between Hannah and Chuck is shrinking, the flute music is jarring. Finally she gets the hell out.

Tricia: When she leaves, we notice that every person passing her and going into the building, is a woman, perhaps representing all the women he has raped/molested/assaulted. On second viewing, we noticed that all the people passing her as she went into the building, were men. Clever trick.

Jessica: If Chuck represents every revered male artists whose assault allegations are ignored, then these women do seem symbolic of unheard, often faceless, victims. This episode feels a lot like Lena Dunham is hanging these types of men out to dry.