I’m all set to tease Philip about the hard apple cider he’s sipping from a brown paper bag when he reveals that he’s only drinking it because the store didn’t have his favorite flavor: “Sonoma Pear.” He’s apoplectic about the whole scene, here, until Carley sends him a text: “Just enjoy the company and the time alone with your thoughts.” Could it be better said? I love people, but dislike and mistrust talk. I love to dance, but why this prohibition against biting one’s lower lip while doing so, which feels so good and right? Because one day in 1986 it struck Eddie Murphy as the epitome of white earnestness, and earnestness is the seedbed of the oppression that is blithe? Did I mention I love irony? I love irony. I hate trivia and quirk.
Duhamel’s deliciously tall and I’d respectfully disagree with my companion tonight, I don’t need his arms to be bigger. He’s in sports television, while Heigl (Killers) runs an amazing bakery. Is Atlanta giving film productions tax breaks? Their dead-in-a-car-crash friends bequeath kid, house, and pack-n-play to our couple, cue the first boxing-up-your-dead-friends’-stuff montage of the year. What’s the crisis? Duhamel, start of the third act: “We’re just playing a role.” It’s a savage critique of heteronormativity, the trappings come first and then they grow to fill them, and the cultural fantasy that eros is the core of relationships is belied all the more by the film’s irrational fear of spooge.
“Life as we know it”—in other words, we can’t talk about life without appending an idiomatic recognition of our epistemological limit, which one begins to imagine not as a hole in the wall over which a heavy plastic tarp has been taped, but instead as several pads’-worth of bossy post-it notes festooning an office kitchenette. Reminders everywhere. There’s a point at which your data’s so well backed-up you can’t help but start, in spite of yourself, to give less of a shit about any of it.
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