This article contains spoilers from The Devil Wears Prada. If that is something that would keep you from reading an article, please goddamn yourself.
I saw The Devil Wears Prada recently. Yes I have a penis. I let my wife choose and it was either The Devil Wears Prada or Catherine Wears the Diamond Studded Strap-On and since it was a Friday I went with the former. I prepared for the film by drinking a Zima and spraying myself with the scent of daffodils. Don’t cry for me.
The film was harmless and Simon Baker was in it though he only fought three zombies but I was saddened to find that it was the latest in a long line of films that convey a rather odd and silly message: It is perfectly cool to cheat on whomever you’re with. The leading character (typically a male but in this case a girl with world beating blouse bashers) has a tryst with the alluring stranger only to run home to the lover they spurned in a third act triumph. All is forgiven!
I’m no Puritan though I do enjoy Quaker State motor oil. In an environment where people are up in arms about a few too many frames of a head exploding, exposed pubic hair, and the sad lack of pinball machines in sex scenes, do you think that perhaps a few less romantic comedies or romantic dramas could get by without having to have the leading character hop outside the relationship to discover the true meaning of love? I’m not a concerned parent. I’m not a prude. I just know that people are pretty weak willed already, especially if they’re going to see the "easy film" with their date instead of forcing them to ride 600 miles on a Friday after work to catch a showing of Mondo Cane. Temptation’s a bitch but I have to admit that I totally lost any interest in what happened to Anne Hathaway’s character (I still was willing to give her breasts the benefit of the doubt) once she ditched the perfectly capable and lovable Adrian Grenier for the coiffed zombie fighting dude after the latter helped her steal a Harry Potter manuscript and offered to help her get freelance work. One guys cooks for her, shares a home with her, and has been putting the screws to her for untold years and she rewards him by having huge tits and leaving them all over Simon Baker. Then, she gets home and thinks "Holy shit, I’ve got a great guy at home!" and all is well. He’s proud to have her. He’s glad she spent a few hours during her trip to Paris pinned under the writhing Simon.
Her repercussions, none.
Am I elitist because I’ve never cheated on any of my ladies? I don’t think so. I don’t need a Bible to tell me that’s wrong and I need a film telling me it’s just a speed bump on the way to happiness even less.