Last night, the Dallas Museum of Art and Arts & Letters Live hosted a private screening of Julie & Julia. If I have to write even one sentence to describe what this movie is about, you might as well skip this post and go here.
Several Dishers attended, and I await their reviews below. I am not a movie reviewer, but the following is my Sybil-esque recap. (I say Sybil-esque because I had two strong and separate reactions to the film.)
Full disclosure: I have not read Julie Powell’s book or blog. I am extremely jealous of her rags-to-riches-by-blogging success. Also, other than Lions for Lambs, the movie she did with Tom Cruise, I have enjoyed watching every film Meryl Streep has ever made. (“I haaad a faaaarm in Aaaafricaaa…..” slays me every time.) Okay, here goes:
Overall observation: Julie & Julia is the ultimate chick flick for middle-aged chicks with stylish short haircuts and funky jewelry who wish they were married to either one of the perfect husbands portrayed in the film.
Thumbs-Up Sybil: Meryl Streep pulled it off. Julia Child was a larger-than-life personality, and acting the part must have been a huge challenge. The only other actor who has successfully pulled off a Julia Child was Dan Aykrod when he spoofed Child on Saturday Night Live. BTW, the clip is in the movie and is the funniest scene.
Stanley Tucci, who played Child’s devoted husband Paul, was buff, tan, and kissable. I would like to be married to Paul—he loved Julia’s big sassy body and brain. Not to mention her obnoxious voice. (Note: I am middle-aged with short hair and funky jewelry.) The grainy photography of Paris in the 40s and the set designs were delicious. I laughed effortlessly a couple of times, but I can’t remember why. Actress Linda Emone, who played Child’s bitchy co-author, Simone Beck, was brilliant.
I wish the movie would have just been about the life of Julia Child and not interwoven with the present blog/book, but that is probably just me. However, one redeeming value to this juxtaposition is that it illustrates Child’s unbending devotion to conventional cooking and shines a light on her culinary force. She was earnest and not a slave to fads. Current day reality TV chefs look stupid and shallow in her shadow.
Thumbs-down Sybil: Yes, Julie Powell was writing a food blog in 2003. Yes, she was ahead of the curve and got a break. So, cynical me has to not like her. That said, Amy Adams, who played Julie, didn’t have a chance. The relationship with her husband is sickeningly sweet. A couple of the scenes made me wish I could be a film editor. TOO LONG with the fake crying (she needs acting lessons) and the kitchen melt downs. If Meryl Streep is criticized for overacting, then Amy Adams should be called out for under acting. (When you see the movie, watch for her pathetic attempt to yawn convincingly.)
Men are not like either of the husbands portrayed in this movie. (Yes, I wish I were married to Paul.)
The use of the word “yum” must cease immediately. It is insulting to food.
Questions:
(1) How did Julie and her perfect—and poor—husband afford the ingredients for this project? In the beginning, Julie is cooking on hand-me-down cookware. A few scenes and recipes later, she is tossing about $200 of live lobster into a copper stock pot. (Maybe that is in the book.)
(2) How did Julie and her perfect—and poor—husband not gain 50 pounds eating Julia Child’s butter-laden recipes? In one scene late in the movie, Julie is lying across the marital bed fake sobbing into a pillow while dressed in her perfect-and-poor husband’s dress shirt that conveniently cups her tight little butt. She had been cooking for over a half a year and complaining about weight gain. She did not weigh 100 pounds. (Note: I weigh more than 100.)
(3) The scene with Julie and her perfect-and-poor husband making love while the answering machine plays back 65 messages of offers to make her famous made me sick at my stomach. Jealous? Me? Yes. Gross.
And speaking of sex, I had a hard time watching Julia Child, excuse me, Meryl Streep playing Julia Child, in a sex scene. But that’s just me wishing I was having a sex with Stanley Tucci in Paris.
