I'm not one to automatically hate romantic comedies. There are some I quite like. But they have to be really well done. Monster in Law is not.
My wife asked me to rent the DVD yesterday, and I dutifully obliged. "J. Lo and Jane Fonda might make for an interesting flick" I thought. The first thing I noticed when I opened the case was that there were two DVDs, the second entirely devoted to extra features. Excuse me? Why does a movie of this rather low caliber deserve and entire second disc?
So, before pressing play, I braced myself with a generous shot of Patron and cuddled up with my wife.
Five minutes later, I found myself wishing I'd never been born.
OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a wee bit. It wasn't all THAT bad. But c'mon, how is a grown man supposed to effectively suppress the urge to vomit upon hearing exchanges like: "What color are my eyes?", "They're brown, but when the light hits them they turn amber and the edges turn gold..."? Even the actor who uttered this line was struggling against the instinctive urge to hurl.
Ya, there are some priceless nuggets of yech littered about this as-Hollywood-as-you-can- get formulaic tripe. And I'm getting sick of seeing perfectly groomed rich white people being driven around in Jaguars between their mansions by black people, scheming to undermine poor people. Maybe it's just bad timing. After this last week's events in New Orleans, class disparity is no longer a laughing matter.
For the sheer masochism of it, I even watched some of the extras, including the bit about the director, who was so incredibly annoying I have to wonder who he blew to get his job.
My wife asked me to rent the DVD yesterday, and I dutifully obliged. "J. Lo and Jane Fonda might make for an interesting flick" I thought. The first thing I noticed when I opened the case was that there were two DVDs, the second entirely devoted to extra features. Excuse me? Why does a movie of this rather low caliber deserve and entire second disc?
So, before pressing play, I braced myself with a generous shot of Patron and cuddled up with my wife.
Five minutes later, I found myself wishing I'd never been born.
OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a wee bit. It wasn't all THAT bad. But c'mon, how is a grown man supposed to effectively suppress the urge to vomit upon hearing exchanges like: "What color are my eyes?", "They're brown, but when the light hits them they turn amber and the edges turn gold..."? Even the actor who uttered this line was struggling against the instinctive urge to hurl.
Ya, there are some priceless nuggets of yech littered about this as-Hollywood-as-you-can- get formulaic tripe. And I'm getting sick of seeing perfectly groomed rich white people being driven around in Jaguars between their mansions by black people, scheming to undermine poor people. Maybe it's just bad timing. After this last week's events in New Orleans, class disparity is no longer a laughing matter.
For the sheer masochism of it, I even watched some of the extras, including the bit about the director, who was so incredibly annoying I have to wonder who he blew to get his job.