My Husband's a Movie Critic. Here's why I skip 90% of screenings.

"The Artist" is a film I saw...and loved.

Though my husband hosted Sneak Previews, the movie review show on PBS, for twelve years, and has continued to review new movies as a national radio talk-show host for the last 18 years, I seldom go with him to screenings.

Here's why: I don't want anything in my head with violence, suspense or slapstick. If I go to a movie, I want it to be fun, interesting and/or uplifting. You don't need violence, suspense or slapstick for that.

Many people call me a wimp. A whuss. A ridiculous extremist. Let me try to convince you that I'm right to be so picky.

First, violence. I don't like to see people get hurt. I know it's not real, but animation, camera work, "foley" sound and special effects put us in the middle of the gore and mayhem. When I see an image, I don't just forget it. I wince. My brain has taken an indelible snapshot of the scene with its literally sickening, graphic components. Sickening: even in real life, I'm squeamish, and in real life in America, you don't typically see such disgustingly horrible mutilations and murders as screenwriters devise. There is far too much placed before my eyes from the real world without my consent; why would I want to add even more bloodshed to fuel my recollections?

There's been way too much research on the impact of violence on children, and more than necessary on the influence of violence on adults. After the first fifty studies, we should have understood that images, plot lines and even incidental content all change us. Watching violence makes kids more aggressive, and even if it doesn't change actual behavior, it influences how they perceive the world (more menacingly). Please read Michael Medved's classic book Hollywood Vs. America.

He makes the unassailable point that advertisers spend tons of money for sixty seconds of content, which they'd definitely save if they thought their commercials didn't impact anyone. Certainly the TV shows surrounding those commercials sink into our consciousness just as much as the ads. In movie theaters, with all distractions removed and images oh, thirty times life-size, doesn't it make sense that blood spattering across your field of view, with severed limbs or mangled bodies creates an impression that's, well, larger-than-life?

I know: you watched all that stuff and you came out okay. In fact, you keep watching that stuff, and you're a virtuous model citizen who sleeps just fine. Well, you may have a clean slate and your heart might melt at LOL Cats, but this doesn't mean you're unscathed. Desensitization to cruelty and others' suffering, proven in scads of those over-funded studies as an outcome of watching violence, may not express itself overtly or even often, but still offers subtle influences to personality.

Does seeing violence really help you in any way? You can say that it's necessary when telling some stories; that the plot couldn't move forward without it. You could say it, but it's not so. Remember Alfred Hitchcock's movies? He worked during times of strictly imposed standards of the Motion Picture Production Code (called the Hays Code after its champion Will H. Hays, the first president of the Motion Picture Association of America). Yet he was able to clearly communicate horrifying events, causing plenty of nightmares in viewers, without oozing blood, graphic hackings or shocking dismemberment.

And frankly, I don't want to wrap my brain around a story with even implied violence. OK, this may be too wimpy for most, but in my limited hours on earth, I'd rather use my brain cells for less wrenching focus. As a psychologist, I cultivate empathy; if I have any for a fictional screen character--which is what all good writers strive for--then I'll still experience some degree of anguish or discomfort to see the protagonist suffer. There is enough real suffering in the world; for that I reserve my heartfelt caring and distress.

So, I eschew viewing violence. I'll never see an Alfred Hitchcock film, though, due to my second criterion: no suspense.

Well, little suspense. Even the most lighthearted films have some sort of hurdle or obstacle or conflict, and of course these create some level of suspense. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, there's some problem (causing suspense) but it's overcome and, well, Sleepless in Seattle. You've Got Mail. When Harry Met Sally. Biggest RomCom grosser of all time? My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

Why refuse movie suspense? Because suspense is imposed stress. Life is stressful enough, see my note re suffering, above. Some people find tension invigorating. I do, but only self-imposed stress, like when I'm cooking big meals for guests for the Jewish Sabbath and I've got only a few minutes until it begins but three dishes left to finish.

That's blissful stress. I set it up that way; when I do get everything done under the wire, I'm flying into Shabbat. Feelin' good! Feelin' fine! Feelin' in control! If I miss the deadline and have to turn off the oven with the challah bread still baking inside, well, okay, it's my own fail, and I'm still pumped from the exercise of trying. That's why God made freezers--to keep bread ready for when yours isn't quite done on time.

But somebody else imposing unpredictable stress? No thank you. Even if I've begged for the spoiler, and found out the plot turns out fine, I don't want a movie manipulating my emotions like that.

And most of the time, I don't know what will happen, except that the music is getting faster with lots of thumping, and you see the car careening with a very upset driver. That's when I leave the room and don't finish the movie. If I made a poor choice and am stuck inside a dark theater, that's when I duck under my jacket, put my fingers in my ears and start humming. I never have to worry about disturbing my neighbors because that thumping about-to-crash music gets awfully loud.

The Three Stooges. Hilarious?

No, a script-writer's imposed stress is not for me. That brings me to the final movie device I avoid: slapstick.

I don't find people doing stupid things, usually getting injured doing them, funny. The Three Stooges were prime offenders. The cruelty poking eyes, flipping brooms and crowding doorways appalled me as a kid watching the black-and-white TV show. How many pies were pushed onto those guys' faces? What did they have against pie? I did not laugh; I cringed. This does not mean I am humorless, and in fact, I'm the first to laugh at even fairly lame jokes. I just don't laugh at slapstick, because it's always at someone's expense.

As intimated earlier, that leaves me with romantic comedies. Or unromantic comedies. Or interesting stories that aren't even funny, but end up happy (or at least not sad). I prefer exiting a movie more upbeat than when I entered. I prefer being entertained, perhaps with good singing and dancing, as offered in most musicals. But if the show is called "dark" (Into the Woods) or a tragedy (the characters you care about die) or a suspense thriller (duh), there's no chance I'll enjoy it.


Like most people, before taking the hour-and-a-half for the movie plus the extra hour-and-a-half for transportation and mandatory waiting for the show, I check out the film's trailer online. When I saw the one for The Theory of Everything (2014), about handicapped scientist Stephen Hawking, it appeared the film was the story of a couple in love fighting together to overcome a debilitating disease. Looked romantic, but it bothered me to see Hawking succumbing to illness, so I skipped the screening. My husband returned saying that the trailer was misleading--the film was really about the Hawkings' divorce. He said it depicted each's affairs and their split. Rather than an uplifting story of love trumping physical limitation, it apparently told of love's demise.  No matter how well acted or beautifully shot a film, if its story is one of coming apart, betrayal and sadness, it's not for me.

Most people love sharing their responses to movies, and who better to do that with than a real movie critic? If I'm standing by when friends start talking to my husband, I listen politely but only rarely want to see the movie discussed. I've got far too much to accomplish, experience, and heck, just maintain (ie housework) to indiscriminately enter some screenwriter's made-up world. I admire excellent artistry but not at the risk of my sensibilities.

I do enjoy many films, though. The Artist, winner of the Oscar for Best Picture in 2012, is at the top of my list. Why? It was a film in which every character was likeable, yet it told a complex story with a message--and even did it silently, in black-and-white. Recently, I liked Chef, this year's Jon Favreau film, and while we're on the subject of food, Julie and Julia (2009) and The Hundred Foot Journey (2014), were delightful films that met all my criteria.

Which brings me to the final point. Most movies lower the quality of discourse, and drag me into milieus and neighborhoods I'd rather avoid. The ones I appreciate contribute to my enjoyment of the world. I am blessed with a fabulous, exciting life, and while I love broadening it with travel and non-fiction and beautiful images and music and especially study and learning, I want to restrict the tainting influences in our culture as much as possible. So, I'd rather hear a lecture on Jewish text than a movie with profanity. I'd rather even read the newspaper than "experience" a character's grimy, drug-centered downfall. Yes, that limits my experiences to half of the possibilities of life, for surely there is as much negative in the world as positive. But one can be aware of the negative but choose the positive. One can read about criminals and choose admirable people as friends.

So don't expect to see me with my husband at screenings. I'll remain blissfully naive of the latest box-office smash. And as free as possible from gruesome images and soul-wrenching stories, hoping to make the most of this awesome existence.

"Julie and Julia:" Not Really About Food

Bon appetit! The ringingly melodic inflection of Julia Child is almost a self-parody, but when my friend appeared at my door today with the sing-song greeting, we collapsed into peals of knowing laughter. Last week we went to a screening of "Julie and Julia."

What a great movie. I kept hearing my friend's guffaws. She kept glancing over to see the tears sliding down my cheeks. Together, we're an extremely emotional duo.

The film is about several things: finding one's voice, one's direction, one's passion. Two loving marriages that deepen with time and communication. Actually, most of the film is about communicating, and the medium is words but also food. There's perhaps a bit too much explaining the emotional significance of ingredients and preparation, when simply watching the women's interaction with it might have better sufficed. But Julie (Amy Adams), the blogger, uses her words not to describe as a picture, but as part of the therapeutic process of conquering a task, of surmounting obstacles and meeting a deadline. Julie is a writer; Julia (Meryl Streep) is a cook, a connoisseur. Julie is self-centered, as bloggers tend to be; Julia is product centered, and because of it comes across as the better-rounded, more observant and perhaps more romanticized of the two.

After all, she lives in Paris. And revels in the locale, immersing herself in its sensual offerings. Julie lives in Queens over a pizza store and works at an insurance provider; she uses food almost as a means of negating her world.

But this film is, to me, as much about time and times as it is about the characters. I wasn't alive for post-War Paris, though when I finally came there, I was as enthralled as Julia was, wandering to all the sights in the Michelin Green Guide, a process of several weeks. But this was before cell phones and Internet and digital cameras. Long before 9-11, the event that changed America's perception of itself and thrust the film's Julie into her job filing insurance claims for its victims. The Paris of today is a changed milieu, rocked by Muslim riots, and immigrants wearing Islamic garb increasingly populating its suburbs. Julia experienced its quaint shops within the protection of a diplomatic context that allowed her to experiment luxuriously while finding her calling.

Julie lives in a time when such isolation is impossible. Competition, thanks to women's liberation, is intense and early. Julie's friends with their obnoxious cell phones and Blackberries drive her into a funk, but also motivate her--to the new, narcissistic medium of blogging--as a means to advancement. This is not about "finding something to dooooo," as Julia considers her dilettantism; it's about validating herself. Nowadays, women cannot be complete as supportive wives; we must also achieve in stellar careers. The contrast between the two women's eras struck me: Julia serendipitiously discovered her calling and was thrilled to see it develop; Julie began with a self-definition as a writer, and felt finally legitimized when her blog led to a feature in the New York Times. Of the two time periods' mindsets, Julia's is the more appealing. But I identify more with Julie's; pity.

Reviews of this movie often mention that while both women enjoy loving marriages, food provides each a menage et tois. I disagree. While Meryl Streep does a marvelous "mmmmm!", this is not a cookbook shoot or her TV show. The sights center on the women's worlds, not their pans and casseroles, and I'm glad for it, since food is intimate, involving fragrance as much as sight and taste. And most audiences consider a camera's caress of beaten egg a bit too slow.

Now, I get down and dirty with food a lot. I prepare Shabbat meals, fancy dinners and lunches for tablefuls of 12 guests, just about every week. I make challah from scratch, nearly every week. Meals start with wine, bread, soup, vegetarian main course, three side dishes and desserts...and must be prepared the day before, no last minute cooking. I laugh every year when mags feature spreads coaching Thanksgiving prep--for me, Thanksgiving's a breeze, because I can actually turn on my oven!

Julie's deadline of making 524 recipes in a year is hardly daunting to the woman who makes probably a thousand more, has complicated rules about heating them up, and serves them in her best clothes. I was lucky this week; my daughter's friend was visiting and volunteered to check the broccoli. If you know what that means, you're probably smiling.

So Julie and Julia was more about finding identity than food, the handy device that enabled the story. The ultimate question must be--whose life contained more joy? Julie's story continues, and I know little about it, but from Nora Ephron's snapshot and Meryl Streep's portrayal, I'd rather emulate Julia's gusto for life outside herself than Julie's self-centered ruminating, any day.

A Well-Deserved Honor, Litter, and Rushing to "Shopaholic"

On Sunday night, our synagogue community had a festive dinner honoring a young couple named Judith and Elie, who, over the last many years, have been instrumental to our delightfully thriving congregation in many ways.

They're known for their extreme "chesed," or kindness without expectation (for them, not even a thought) of repayment. They open their home to Jewish travelers passing through who need a place for Shabbat. The husband is the "gabbai," or MC of synagogue services. (the translation for that word is usually "beadle," but I'm not sure what that is...someone who beads? Just joking).

And together with a few other dedicated congregants, they've spent hundreds of hours working with experts to help set up an "eruv" or boundary around our community, an unbroken enclosure largely defined by power wires and steep inclines and existing walls that designates us together as one "domain" so that we can carry within it on Shabbat.

To the unaware, it seems rather weird, but keep in mind that Shabbat is all about emulating God's ceasing of creation--which then gives us a day to celebrate the world as it is, to enjoy family, to engage in spiritual rather than physical advancement. One of the types of "creative activity" we pull back from is commerce, the essence of which is transporting stuff from one domain to another.

Having an "eruv" lets mothers push strollers and carry infants to services and to visit friends nearby; it lets me carry a kleenex in my pocket as I walk the 2.7 miles to our synagogue in the frigid weather that causes a runny nose. And, most importantly, the eruv allows my husband to carry a bag for collecting litter.

Now we get to the point: Over the course of his trek to shul, my husband collects bags and bags of garbage. Each week. As he passes the park, he empties his bag in a trash can, and keeps collecting until he arrives. On his way home, he tidies the other side of the street.

This week after hosting some dear friends for lunch, we decided to walk with them the ten-minutes between our homes. After a rainy morning and a slate-dull day, the sun had finally slunk beneath the cloud cover for its final rays, casting a golden light on the dampened foliage. It was runny-nose cold, the kind when you keep your hands tucked in your pockets, and dip your cheeks beneath the upturned collar on your down jacket.

But not my husband--his left hand held a white plastic bag, and his right was free to grasp tossed water bottles and beer cans, coffee cups printed with wizened words, and their ubiquitous lids and straws. Walking by a school, my husband filled his kitchen can liner and two other supermarket plastic bags he found before encountering a bin to dump the heavy contents. A bourbon bottle, the remains of a bashed campaign sign, several glass juice bottles and various other detritus made his haul rival Santa's bulging stash.

What was I doing? I was on the look-out, pointing when I spied a a saturated kleenex, mud-filled soda can, half-buried packing peanut or soggy notebook leaf. Why didn't I pick up that yukky junk? On other occasions, I have. But dressed in Shabbat clothing on that shivery day, when I could converse with friends rather than fill a plastic bag with sludgy souvenirs...well...my husband was getting great exercise.

Why is all this remarkable? Because after he stooped and retrieved and shook slugs and stale beer out of cans; after he carried and dumped and refilled and got mud caked in his shoe-ridges; after a day depositing what must have weighed, all-told, more than two hundred pounds into trash receptacles...the NEXT DAY, those same streets were once again ripe for clean-up.

Fresh fast-food cups, new latte-discards, more tossed Coors cans and doughnut boxes and paper napkins. There they were, in our residential neighborhood, by the side of the road. Again.

Tonight we went to a screening of "Confessions of a Shopaholic," a contender for worst movie of the year. I didn't know as we drove that I'd soon say "get me out of here" at four particularly painful points during the unbearable film--the hype touted a hilarious romp through designer stores with which every woman identifies, if even in her fantasies. I was excited to be going to the screening, but we were late, and I wanted to be sure to arrive on time. Couldn't we just drive a tad faster?

Actually, no. My husband saw a MacDonald's cup and swerved. "Just grab that," he commanded. I unlatched my seat belt, thrust open the car door, lunged for the cup, which still held ice and orange soda. No trash can in sight; I got to hold it.

But we were late! And I'm into shopping! OK, my haunts may be Dollar Tree and Big Lots instead of Prada and Gucci--but a girl can dream! Must I rush into the screening holding a dirty cup?

No worries, I got to put the cup into the broken cup-holder while I dashed out after second swerve for a crumpled bag, cast alongside the park. And that is all there is to the story--another day, another bag of trash plucked from the side of the road.

But as long as we're talking about shopping, I'll let you in on the best birthday gift I ever gave my husband: his first "gopher" litter-pick-up tool. Along with it, I bought an orange reflective vest, to wear when he's refuse-cruising at night. I purchased some inch-and-a-half-wide reflective tape, and from it cut out the letters of his first name, which I glued to the chest-pocket area; on the back, I cut out and affixed the words, "Help me pick up litter."

That is not my husband in the photo, btw. But he does use that "gopher" every day except Shabbat, on which he tries to do things a little differently, grasping his booty with his bare hands. As for the vest, well, for the shopaholics among you, I think you just might be able to find it right now...at the thrift store.

"He's Just Not That Into You"

Because I can't countenance movies with violence, suspense or slapstick, when I'm invited to the screening of a romantic comedy, the answer is ...when do we leave?

"He's Just Not That Into You" is just the sort of film I enjoy, and the pre-release hype was exceptionally effective in piquing my interest.

(I was only slightly hesitant since I'd just seen "New in Town," a romantic comedy that put a fish-out-of-warm-water [in this case actress Renee Zellweger as Miami exec Lucy Hill] into the bitter chill of a New Ulm, MN winter. The predictable romance with union rep Ted Mitchell [Harry Connick, Jr.] is as cheesy as the yogurt produced by the Munck food factory Lucy comes to downsize. A must-miss.)

"He's Just Not That Into You," on the other hand, was smart, sassy, and its romantic set-ups on-pitch. Not that my blessed life ever resembled any of the five or six women and just as many men that form the web of characters seemingly seeking vastly different things from their relationships. And what an attractive web this is: Ben Affleck, Jennifer Aniston, Justin Lane, Scarlett Johansson plus many more equally alluring young adults.

Does everyone want love? Implicitly, deep down inside, yes. But in the pairing process, do guys want sex and girls want commitment? Definitely.

I enjoyed the New York Times' article on "Into You" director Ken Kwapis, who has been married 18 years to writer Marisa Silver, his co-director on "He Said, She Said." That was a film where each spouse directed half the story about a almost-committed relationship from the point of view of his/her own gender. "Into You" is similar, with one character, who runs a bar, advising a lonely patron about the harsh realities of male communication, and one of the stories about a couple at the "fish or cut bait" moment. There's also a shaky marriage where trust is an issue, and the self-destructive bottle-blonde who wants what she can't have. Throw in a couple cute but faltering ladies never called by skanky, selfish guys and like that sliced kids' book with differently-composed head, body and feet you can rearrange into any combination, you've got pretty close to all the possibilities any romantic comedy ever offered. All in one movie.

The good thing is that with so many relationships going on, each with a plausible core, and with so many quirky and vulnerable people, you're never bored. In fact, writers Abby Kohn and Marc Silverstein avoided typical chick flick cliches so assiduously that the movie's website offers a giggle-worthy short portraying each of the top ten romantic comedy devices not in the film--using "Into You's" three cutest male stars for all the roles.

Still, there are plenty of cliches to go around. And of course, nobody in the film ever has any connection to religion (not even in either of two weddings shown), and there's no church given even the nod of a quick scenery shot. In addition, the product placements are just too obvious--with Crest Whitestrips so prominent that after our screening, samples of the tooth whiteners were given out as souvenirs.

Also, no normal, happy marriages earn even a mention, and there's only one person on camera who appears to be over age 35--and even he (Kris Kristofferson) is alone. Finally, if a Martian gleaned his view of earth life from this movie, he'd get the idea that gays make up about a third of the population--and invariably are in advisory positions to all the clueless straights around whom they hover.

Still, this movie met my criteria for an entertaining evening out. My sorority daughter, upon hearing I was on my way to the screening, responded, "Awwww! I wanted to go see that!" And I'm sure she, and every chick who ever settled into a velvet seat with a box of popcorn, will, too. A nice diversion, providing me some juicy fodder for the book I'm writing, and another reminder of why I'm so glad I'm married to the man I am.

But no matter your romantic situation, "Into You" leaves a lot more to chew on than a few kernel-husks stuck in your teeth.

"Kit Kittredge:" An American Deception

My two little girls, now in college, used to read those American Girl books with their white shiny covers featuring snapshots of 'tweens in various decades of American history. I never bought my daughters the overpriced collector's dolls, dressed in period costumes, though the one who accompanied me tonight to a screening of "Kit Kittredge: An American Girl" revealed to me my cruelty in the face of her friends' displays.

Kit (Abigail Breslin) and her parents plunge from upper-crust existence into poverty in 1934 when the depression busts the dad's (Chris O'Donnell) car dealership and forces him to leave their Cincinnati home to find work in Chicago. To pay the mortgage, Mom (Julia Ormond) takes in an assortment of boarders, including a magician, husband-hungry dance instructor, mobile librarian and a down-and-out classmate of Kit's, with his fussy mom. She takes pity on a teen and his quite-young sidekick who live in the community's "Hobo Jungle" by the railroad tracks. This motley crew, plus a few plucky friends of Kit's, populate a film punctuated by thievery, deception and the kids' miraculous solving of the who-done-it. It's no spoiler to say the film's loose ends get neatly tied in a single scene at the end.

Director Patricia Rozema has pulled together some sweetly evocative sets, costumes and scenes (the movie was shot in Toronto), though it's easy for adults to spot several distracting anachronisms that the target audience will miss. Much more disturbing, however, are some of the messages implicit in the movie.

First off, by 1934, unemployment had leveled off, after a peak of almost 25% the year before. That's one out of four otherwise employable adults out of work, at the depression's worst. The movie implies that few held onto their jobs, and that those who did--including the banker who puts foreclosure signs in Kit's neighborhood front lawns--became snickering denigrators of those whose fortunes were lost. A soup kitchen scene attempts to show a kinder side, though we have no clue who sponsors it, and when Kit's school class is given an assignment to volunteer there one night, she's shocked by the variety of clientèle. An aside: while the depression was certainly devastating, FDR's New Deal attempts to end it exacerbated the damage and hampered the recovery (as well-documented by Amity Shlaes in The Forgotten Man).

A second inaccuracy is the complete lack of any type of religious reference, even as Americans turned to religion as solace in a difficult time. There's not even a glimpse of a church during a street scene, and not a single character ever murmurs even a word that could be taken as a thought toward the transcendental. By calling Kit "An American Girl," and placing her in Cincinnati, one might expect at least a passing nod to a centerpiece of life at the time.

In addition, the hobo encampment is shown via Kit's journalistic "investigation" to be a place of respectable people behaving only with honesty and goodwill. Perhaps at the time such upstanding tent cities existed, but the implication for modern viewers is that the homeless sleeping in shop doorways or populating cardboard lean-tos under freeways are somehow equivalent and honorable--rather than being mentally ill or alcoholics spurning shelters and assistance programs available to them. This is a misleading message for youngsters, almost the opposite of the "don't talk to strangers" safety rules we want them to internalize.

But this isn't a history lesson, it's a 9-year-old girl's perspective, and the film does address the hurt of her father's absence, and the indignities she turns into fun, in true Pollyanna style. There's also a touch of Nancy Drew as Kit, hoping to hit print in the Cincinnati Register, uses her field notes about crimes to help her figure out, far too easily, what the law enforcement offices of several cities can't. On the surface, it's a clean, family-oriented and enjoyable plot, but those deceptive underlying lessons are troubling.

And it's a bit ironic that a movie about poverty and the Great Depression is being hyped with so much expensive stuff for little fans to buy. I'm kinda glad my two girls only got the books.

No Violence, Suspense or Slapstick--or lesbian come-outs, PLEASE!

Confession: I am NOT a movie maven. I do not go to movies very often, like most of the American population. This is especially bizarre because I am connected by marriage to the movie biz, and my more interesting half attends several movies a week. Not necessarily alone, but without me. My criteria for movies, which I suspect applies to more women than care to admit it, are: no violence, suspense or slapstick. Which eliminates 98% of movies.

And, which leaves romantic comedy. We could go on and on about Borat, which I did happen to see, and which I did laugh at, but which I felt smarmy about. Borat, you see, fails in category 3: no slapstick. And why? Because I do not like to see people behaving stupidly, or taking advantage of others' goodness, and the premise of Borat does both. Brings out the lowest aspects of character: "Let's find some well-meaning, unsuspecting hick, trap him into being embarrassing or racist, or maybe WE can just embarrass him, and then the audience will laugh uproariously!" I find that, well, unfunny. Uncomfortable. Unethical.

OK, call me old-fashioned. Call me humorless. Oh heck, call me a spoil sport. But I feel badly that I laughed at various scenes in Borat. The scene where the kids at the park are scared witless when the ice-cream truck offers not frozen treats but a ferocious bear--that is the essence of comedy, the epitome of "out-of-place," but to laugh at kids who are genuinely terrified? What kind of sadistic person is THAT?

But Borat is not the subject of my post tonight. No, it's the new "romantic comedy," Gray Matters. I actually accompanied my spouse to a pre-release screening of this "romantic comedy," and I found the film to be neither romantic nor a comedy. Why even bother to write about it, then? Because I was surprised by the film. It starts out innocently enough--a cute couple who live in the same apartment and share all turn out to be brother and sister rather than lovers. And they decide it's time to find mates; the guy (Thomas Cavanagh) has a too-cute meet with a happens-to-be-available dog owner in the park (Bridget Moynahan) and within two days they're engaged. The left-out sister (Heather Graham) gets jealous, and wants in on the relationship with the newbie, and her shrink says it's natural she'd be competing, given the inseparability the sibs had before.

So far, it seems like it could be cute, but it gets nasty when a drunken girl-to-girl kiss convinces the sis that she's gay. Could be a plot twist that gets ironed out in the end...or so I hoped, but NOOOOOO, THAT'S THE WHOLE MOVIE!! The point is that a girly-girl like bleached-blond Heather Graham is really gay, and becomes liberated by 1) casting off her shrink, and 2) going to a gay bar, picking up her boss, (cut to Heather emerging from boss' apartment next morning) and leaping with joy a la Mary Tyler Moore when yes, it's confirmed she LIKES "sex" with a woman! I feel cheated. Not only was Heather Graham the most unconvincing lesbian imaginable; not only was the message that "lesbians can be pretty" too far a stretch for this flimsy plot, but if you're going to make a pro-lesbian movie, don't make the transition, from dawning of the possibility to its ecstatic consummation, cover the space of two days. This was supposed to be a movie that meets my criteria; my night out at the cinema, and all I got was...disgusted! Oh, I don't care if some girl wants to be a lesbian...just don't try to wrap that up in the normality of some boy-meets-girl cover.

I think my husband owes me a better movie for our night out. And it better NOT be "300." Violates my criterion number 1.