Don't get me wrong, the cinetrix is as much a fan of movies that commence with montages of skinny girls slipping into premium grade lingerie as the next person. It's just that nearly a week after she capped her four movies in 26 hours [in two states] binge with a screening of The Devil Wears Prada, very little lingers in the old cranium. It's like trying to remember a line from that insightful piece by Plum Sykes in last month's Vogue, you know? Empty calories.
So, while I could plug the appropriate phrases--Hathaway + doe eyes; Streep + steal; Tucci + queen--into the old review generator, it hardly seems worth it. Better to stick with the few fleeting impressions.
- The editor in me called "Bullshit!" at the "Based upon the novel..." credit line. Homie, please. This is a "Based on" with delusions of grandeur at best.
- The Fesser observed, after obliquely invoking 13 Going on 30, that if Hollywood had its way, there'd be no women left in publishing.
- While the "I teach impressionable late adolescents" part of me cringed when Hathaway's Andy gleefully toasted dropping to a size 4, part of me is just dying to yell at the unsuspecting folks around me: "Wake up, Six!"
- If I have to read another thoughtful male critic's sensitive tsk-tsking observations regarding one-dimensional bitchy bosses on film, I might start purging. Straight down their throats after I cut off their heads.
- That said, I have never read more reviews of a mainstream release that mention not only the director, but also the screenwriter and the editor. Let's hear it for below-the-line magic!
- I love love love Emily Blunt in this.
