I have no real patience with what is called the "romcom". In fact, the wife and mine's personal film is Shaun of the Dead, which is more of a zomromcom. I have no intention of reviewing Confessions of a Shopaholic, as it is drivel of the most cliched variety that a chimpanzee could have written by flinging magnetic tiles with plot points written on them at the fridge. My beef is with the central premise that an insane woman in a tequila-driven frenzy can accidentally send an article to a major magazine, which will not only publish it, but will immediately hire her on as staff and give her a regular column with a cool nom de plume complete with art work that results in her doing television interviews after her second article.
Yeah. Right. And after years in the business I spend half my time asking my editors what happened to the cheque that keeps failing to appear. I suspect where I went wrong is in my not being a perky red head with breasts. Okay, since the film makers show magazine publishers as having offices that Fortune 500 companies would salivate over while real life ones are generally fire traps with stacks of back issues cluttering up the stairs and for whom the appearance of a debt collector would be less of an embarrassment for our heroine than a signal for the rest of the office to run like the clappers, I suspect that I am missing something here.
Maybe that has something to do with the loud thwacking sound, which is my head hitting the desk that is the start of my mornings.
1 comment:
I suppose the term "Artistic license" can't begin to apply because it uses the word 'Artistic'
Anyhow, "Shaun of The Dead"... Pretty good but not a patch on the sitcom that spawned it...
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