We escaped from the midday heat today at a matinee screeing of The Devil Wears Prada. Since I'm sure you're dying for my review, here it is in a nutshell: A pretty trifle. Of course, Meryl Streep's human portrayal of the dragon lady surrounded by cartoon figures tipped the whole thing off-center, but it also gave the movie value.
But here's the thing - if I go to see a girly movie, I want frothy, girly movie previews at the beginning. Instead, we got a preview of Oliver Stone's upcoming World Trade Center. Within the first 10 seconds of the preview tears sprang to my eyes. I glanced sideways at my daughter, and saw she had her face buried in her hands. The entire theater sat through it in a kind of shocked (stunned? horrified?) silence.
I don't care how good a film this is; that wound is too fucking raw to be fictionalized, sensationalized, and served up on a big screen along with the popcorn and milk duds.
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