Watching: The Last Kiss
Nice: a film that makes you want to kill yourself and every single person you have ever met, winked at, blushed over, pined for, slept with, or dreamed about in your entire life. If you love Zach Braff now but are hoping to hate him quickly, and perhaps forever, by all means, go see this movie. If you've been dying to see Blythe Danner play yet another wardrobe-defined variation on the icy, weepy, middle-upper crust inexplicably dissatisfied housewife that is the Blythe Danner Stock in Trade, by all means, go see this movie. If you're hoping to lose a bet that Rachel Bilson could somehow wash the Summer out of her hair and hurdle an adult-onset speech pattern, by all means, go see this movie. If you want to be told, loudly and repeatedly, like a ping-pong paddle to the ol' coconut, that all men are self-serving narcissistic assholes who blame women for ruining their lives by forcing them to grow up and that all women are shrill shrieking bitches whose path to fulfillment can only be found by turning those bad boys into good men, by all means, go see this movie.
Just don't ever, ever, ever tell me about it. Movies like this, which have the potential to say something deeper, and with more nuance — by virtue of their casts and creators — than fare you have no right to expect anything from yet still find disappointing (say hello to The Break-Up!), are the reason I seldom go to the movies anymore. At the end, I wanted to pay somebody to run me over with my own car.