Written by Vickie
February 18, 2009 Hits: 698
A retail addict (Isla Fisher) desperately scrambles to feed her habit in this lame chick-flick adapted from the novel of the same name.
What the hell, Hollywood? So far, 2009 blows for women in film. First, Bride Wars told audiences that women are selfish, superficial, vindictive hellions who care only about themselves and their weddings. Now, Confessions... would like the world to know that women are also mindless, materialistic morons who love shoes, handbags, a great sale and little else. And, like Bride Wars, it’s a film that’s not quite sure what it wants to be or what it wants to say. Slapstick? Satire? Silly and super-synthetic, surely.
In her first – albeit hugely disappointing – star vehicle, Isla Fisher stars as Rebecca Bloomwood, a flighty magazine writer desperate to work for fashion maven Alette Naylor (Kristin Scott Thomas, a saving grace, however briefly, for this dud). Rebecca is also the titular shopping addict, whose closets are bursting at the seams despite a bank account unable to sustain her relentless retail assaults. When Rebecca suddenly loses her small-fry gig, she scrambles to get in the door at the publishing house Alette’s magazine calls home – the M.O. being: start at some other rag in the company and work up through the ranks to the prestige title.
Fortunately for Rebecca, struggling financial-mag editor Luke Brandon (Hugh Dancy, only slightly less dull than dishwater) is hiring. Even more fortunately, he likes cutesy metaphors written by cute girls, so Rebecca is soon sitting at her new desk, clueless, trying to write stories about money matters while slowly falling for her scruffy boss. Stop me if you’ve already figured out where the story goes and how it ends, because I’m pretty sure you have.
Unfortunately for all involved, aside from a distinct lack of laughs, there is nary a positive female character anywhere to be found in this chick flick. They’re all either vapid, or shallow, or mean, or insane, or spinstery... and they are all one-dimensional. Aside from Scott Thomas’ steely French diva (who’s at least entertaining), the only spark of light is Joan Cusack as Rebecca’s sensible mom. But that’s because she’s Joan Cusack, not because she’s been handed a plum supporting role. Otherwise? No. A whole slew of lame female stereotypes. And an even bigger collection of over-used, beyond-tired pratfalls meant to endear our heroine to her public by showing us she’s a klutz. Hahahaha! She walked into a glass door! Hahahahaaaaa-ugh... *groan*. Honestly.
I know the film is based on Sophie Kinsella’s wildly popular Shopaholic novels, and maybe the stories play out better in print than they do onscreen. As mentioned, I was never sure what I was to glean from Rebecca’s plight – am I meant to sympathize with her need to shop, even though the reason why she shops with a vengeance is never really explained? Should I be viewing it as a cautionary tale that tells me what matters is on the inside... even though Rebecca has no arc that would indicate she’s learned the same lesson by movie’s end? Or is the movie trying to say that shopping’s totally great and okay as long as you find a rich boyfriend to bankroll your habit? I have no idea.
My two biggest pet peeves (among several), though, are these: the freaky, creepy animated department-store mannequins, who come to life to entice Rebecca into shopping when she really shouldn’t – so needlessly scary!; and the fact that whoever penned the screenplay has obviously never worked at (or researched working at) a magazine in the 21st century. NO ONE SUBMITS COPY ON PAPER. File that under “another cliché in a film overflowing with clichés.” In 2009, no one breathlessly runs into the editor’s office with a fistful of paper on which their down-to-the-wire story is written – everything is filed electronically. I half expected Rebecca to be shown click-clacking away on a decrepit typewriter and correcting errors with White Out.
Though, given the overall tone of the movie, a dated reference like that would be strangely appropriate. Because the film itself – with its insipid lead and hollow plot – very easily rewinds the women’s movement a good few decades.
