so, we watch these movies, these chick flicks, and they are supposed to be somehow empowering, or uplifting, or funny. or something. but instead, i leave the theater feeling dissatisfied, confused and even a little upset. two weekends in a row, i found myself walking home, haunted by these visions of beautiful women flinging their arms around handsome men, thinking to myself, that is not how it works.
the girl doesn’t always get the boy. sometimes, the boy meets girl, the boy woos girl, and then the boy leaves girl. and he never comes back. sometimes the girl wakes up with a zit on her chin, with greasy untamed hair, with pants that no longer fit, and nobody is there to laugh. she just wants to cry herself to sleep, and she does.
there was renee zellweger’s butt on the screen — she gained 20 pounds for this role, you know, they whispered — and the crowd was oohing and ahhing in horror and disgust, and i thought, what is wrong with you people? that is the most believable scene in the whole movie. she looks real.
and i know, i know. i should know better. i don’t go to the movies to get a dose of reality. i can suspend my disbelief.
part of me loves these movies — zany tricks, sappy goodness, and all. but another part of me wishes that someone would tell a real story, for once.