Imagine waking up one day and walking out, only to find that all the men had disappeared. Now if you're a man, that might be deemed cause celebre unless you're George Michael; but think about the women! Downright scary you might think. Who'll take out the garbage? Bring home the microwave dinners? Lie belly up on the bed on Sunday morning in a tangle of hairy appendages, orange juice and the sports supplement of the times! The implications are legion, and horrifying. I can hear Germaine Greer groaning in displeasure, but hey - that's just me.
But director Jane English seems to have no problems with that; nor does she have any problems with foisting it on what was predominantly a male audience (at least last night when my wife and I went to see it). Apparently Ms. English has gone to great lengths to ensure an all-female cast, to the extent that even the dog was a girl. I wonder if all the NYC cabs we saw had female drivers!
Nonetheless, a brave movie even if it was a remake. The ensemble cast reads like a who's who of middle-aged Hollywood. The intro might be mistaken for a 'Sex and the city' sequel, and Annette Bening looks decidedly 'Cattrall'ish as she negotiates the pavements in the opening shots. What followed was an unending stream of 40-something starlets dolled up in Hamptons-couture and driving upscale Japanese brands, going on about charity dinners, manicures, Saks, cheating husbands and friendship till I felt like getting up and banging (no ... wait for it) my head against the walls (which were thankfully padded). Again, the spectre of Sex and the city loomed on the horizon. The dialogues were hammy, albeit delivered with as much chutzpah as one could possibly muster and hats off to the cast for that. The ending was the saving grace, and will probably count as one of the most memorable delivery room scenes since 9 months. There were laughter and tears, forgiveness and joy and all round heart-warming fuzziness as the audience spilt their guts onto the floor laughing.
But the real (re-)discovery was Meg Ryan. The ditsy genius of rom-com is back. One wonders what she has been doing since 'In the cut', but Meg is alive and well. There was the trademark eye-rolling, nose-twitching, flouncy dresses and poetic self-deprecation all dipped in syrupy melancholy, all the traits that we have come to love. No Tom Hanks, but Meg shines her own light. She was an Atlas carrying the weight of the film on her shoulders. And in the end, however the film does, I think people will just be happy to have their favourite fighting 'shop-girl' back on the screens, looking none the worse for wear.
Hurrah!
