So as I go through the pages of my next book, making corrections and changes, I like to go to Netflix.com and have a familiar movie playing as backdrop. Thus far, I’ve gone with Shawshank, When Harry Met Sally and Doc Hollywood.
Tonight, apparently thinking of not thinking, I selected Sweet Home Alabama.
If memory serves, I initially saw Sweet Home Alabama in a Phoenix movie theatre back in 2002. I don’t remember hating it, and through the years I’ve caught little snippets here and there om cable. Has never offended me.
Well, after my most recent viewing, my review can be narrowed to one word: Sucks.
Seriously, seriously, seriously sucks. I know Reese Witherspoon is one of 100 America’s sweethearts and blah blah blah, but, man, she is a b-a-d actress. Of all the accents to master, none should come easier than Southern. It’s a very basic twang, and even I can do it. Here, however, Witherspoon (a New Orleans native!) mangles the damn thing over and over and over again.
Throw in 800 hick jokes, a wooden Patrick Dempsey, a tired southern-girl-forgets-her-roots-but-is-reminded-of-them saga and the lamest it’s-ok-to-be-gay public service announcement ever and, well, yeah. Baaaad flick.
