ONE DAY: A Quirky Movie Review

It’s When Harry Met Sally.

Without Harry. Or Sally.

That’s my review, and now you don’t have to go to the bother and expense of actually seeing the movie. But I was not so lucky. I didn’t pay attention to the reviews.

Oh course, no one is so naive as to believe the ads:

“An epic romance!” Please, someone, tell Harper’s Bazaar that an epic this is not.

“One of the Most Anticipated Movies in Years? Really, Marie Claire? And did it deliver?

“I Love This Movie!” says The New York Observer. Well ain’t love grand. And as one of my exes (not from Texas) used to say: You can’t argue with taste.

But apart from the ads, I actually read a whole entire review, and in The New York Times yet. The thing is, I didn’t read, or think about it, carefully enough. And that was my undoing . . .

Lost Youth?

For starters, the review mentioned “mourning lost youth,” and I thought, hey, I get that. But those doing the mourning are barely in their forties, and yes, that counts as middle-aged, and yes, you can feel “old” at your thirtieth birthday party, but please. Anyone who mourns their youth so early in life has a rough ride ahead on the road to Social Security, or whatever is left of it when they get there. How old is A.O. Scott anyway?

I do agree with him that “Miss Hathaway once again demonstrates her ability to be more appealing than her attractive co-star and more fascinating that her picturesque surroundings,” including her appearance at the Oscars. Amen.

This woman is a born star: beautiful in just that not-quite-perfect way that makes fools of us all. But really, why was she portrayed as such a frump in the first part of the movie. Those glasses. Those shoes. That posture. Why did her co-star scarcely seem to notice her transformation into smart and sophisticated swan later on? And alas, I never really believed her as a Brit, although I tried.

I never even remotely believed Jim Sturgess as a music video show host, or whatever he was supposed to be, although he, too, is very, very easy on the eyes. Even when they — finally — show him looking a bit older at the end. For a while, I thought that time had stood still, even though we went through a lot of Saint Swithin’s Days. Hathaway didn’t get older, just a better wardrobe.

Midnight In Paris — In The Afternoon

Oh well. Maybe I’m so cranky about this film because I had dragged my husband to see it in the afternoon (he thinks this is sinful) and the last time we did this we saw Midnight in Paris, which was worth doing penance for, and then went to El Parador for happy hour, where over margaritas and the best chicken wings you’ve ever tasted, talked about the film for hours. This time, we just drank.

And the other reason I may be prejudiced against this film is that my beloved book club has been reading novels like Great House that jump around in time and place, and leave me wondering where we are and who’s speaking, and what happened. I’m longing for a story that goes in some kind of a straight line, although I certainly gave a pass to Midnight In Paris, didn’t I.

And the moral of the blog is this:

Either be like a friend of mine who never reads reviews —and is blissfully happy with almost all his choices — or, if you’re like me and want to see only the cream of the crop, read more than one review. Or at least read one review and actually pay attention.

As for this movie: one day . . . get a copy of When Harry Met Sally — and have what they’re having.